by Terry, Mark
Horn’s eyebrows rose briefly. “Yes, apparently. So… where are they?”
“They were terminated,” Edison said. He threw a stack of cash on the table. “Here is their pay as promised. Send it on to their families.” Then he put out a larger fold of bills. “That’s for a dozen more.”
Tom Horn blinked slowly for several moments, then smiled and slid the thick fold off the table and into his pocket. “A dozen then. Is that all?”
“Weapons?”
The Pinkerton smiled broadly, but said nothing. Another thick fold of bills appeared on the table. He slid them into his coat. “Did you know there are more Pinkertons than soldiers in the United States Army today?”
Interlude 62
Saturday, March 18, 1893, 2:24 p.m.
Kansas City Union Depot
Tesla, Edison and Ida sat at the table, silent and not looking at one another. Ida poured a glass of ice water from the large pitcher, drank several long swallows, and sighed.
“Well, we can’t seem to come to an agreement.” Ida said, looking at Edison. He looked up at her and then went back to pretending to study the map in front of him.
Tesla folded and refolded a strip of silk, trying different patterns and methods. Ida turned her attention to him and stared for a long moment.
He didn’t move his eyes to meet hers, but spoke, “It will all resolve in the end.”
“We can’t just sit here!” Edison barked.
Again, without looking up, Tesla spoke, “That is a proposition which appears not only unsound in principle but utterly devoid of validity. We can sit here. We are sitting here. We will sit here. I see nothing which compels me to abandon my sense of reality.” He re-folded the silk piece he held.
Edison stood up. “I am going out to check on the train.” He stormed out.
Tesla finished folding the strip one last time. Satisfied, he put the cloth into his pocket and looked at Ida. “We will tell him when time is right. Now is not right.”
“He’s going to be furious when he finds out, Nikola.”
“We can’t stop him from doing as he pleases. It’s inevitable. And, as it happens, necessary.” He shook his head slightly as he spoke those last words.
Work continued around the 4-4-2. Train crews had detached the observation car and secured a new freight car in its place. The flatcar had a set of U-shaped brackets attached to the underframe. These ten-foot tall U-brackets then had sheets of metal riveted to them. In this way, the car had its roof and side panels built right in.
Edison stepped onto the platform, watching the welders and steelworkers finish securing the structure together. Another set of workers went behind them, cutting strips of metal out of the frame for gun slits.
An oily workman in a foreman’s shirt stepped up next to Edison and turned to look back at the car. “We’re cutting gun ports in the sides and a turret at each end.” He pointed to where the men worked. “We’re finishing fusing in the frame, and on the far side, they’re adding a layer of two and half inch oak planks and covering them with more boilerplate. We decided to go with a completely different construction. The freight cars, cattle cars and people movers all had deficiencies in their basic layout. They all had weaknesses you were looking to avoid. With what we had, starting from scratch became our best option.”
“It looks like a damn wagon,” Edison growled.
“Yes, but it’s much stronger. And riveted solid from end to end. No wood roofs, and the doors at each end are as secure as a bank vault. Stair-stepped grooves to prevent it from being levered open, and they’re six inches thick.” He smiled at Edison, and then went back to admiring the train. “Nobody’s getting in there.”
Edison nodded and looked out over the switching yard on the far end of the depot. An incoming freight line could be seen diverting to a nearby transfer yard. A lone Jenny Lind sat next to a derelict warehouse office on the far side on the end of a dead spur. The rest of the yard remained empty.
The foreman gestured toward the railyards on the far side of the depot. “All traffic has been diverted to a staging yard or a gravity yard. Courtesy of Mr. Rockefeller.”
“Good,” Edison said, and proceeded to the far end of the depot. He did not see the two figures moving about the Jenny Lind engine from his vantage. He reached the end of the building and came to a small corral. There, a dozen horses were tied, and a dozen tall imposing men in tan long-coats stood. Some were passive, some were bored, others cast their eyes about furtively. All looked at Edison as he stepped toward them. Four of the men stepped forward, each carrying one end of a heavy wooden crate. They set the crates down six feet in front of the inventor.
Tom Horn stepped forward. “Well, here we are. Just like you asked. We’re no bunch of pasty-faced marshals either.” Horn looked around to scattered chuckling. “And,” he indicated the boxes at his feet, “we have the weapons you requested.”
Edison surveyed the new bounty hunters standing in front of him. A large, barrel-chested man stood at the front of the group. “Your name, sir?” Edison asked the man.
“Vasili,” the big man growled in a thick Russian accent. He had a long thin sword at his hip and wore a fur Cossack cap.
Edison raised his eyebrows. “And the blade you wear. Are you any good?”
Vasili stepped back, and with two hands executed an overhead sweep with the blade and brought it down across one of the wooden crates. In a single swipe he split the wooden lid in two. As he slid the blade back into the scabbard he smiled. “Shashka is good.”
Edison nodded and looked over the crowd. “My name is Thomas Alva Edison. Does everyone know who I am?”
Several Pinkertons nodded.
“I’ve got a team of engineers working. We’ll be taking a train east to find a man who’s very important to me. And there is a very dangerous faction who does not want us to succeed. Your lives will be in danger.”
A Pinkerton who stood a head shorter than the rest spoke up. He had a double breasted vest under his brown overcoat and wore boot-tucked trousers. “Most of us have been on more than one posse together. Most of us rode down the Dalton gang a couple years back. We were outside the bank when we cornered them.” The small man looked around. “Hear tell the townsfolk claim credit for the killings.” He shrugged. “No one here cares.”
“What is your name, sir?” Edison asked.
“They call me Brummel.” His answer was met with a smatter of chuckling from the group.
“Mr. Horn has explained that your families will be paid handsomely if you do not return.” Edison paused for any comment or reaction from the group of men. “Good, then let us see what you brought before us.”
Brummel and Vasili pulled the sliced lid off to reveal two gleaming silver Gatling guns. Two other Pinkertons, one a stocky man with a walrus mustache and the other a black man, pulled the lid off the other crate. Belts of copper .58 caliber rounds for the cannons sat stacked within.
Interlude 63
Saturday, March 18, 1893, 3:41 p.m.
Kansas City Union Depot
Edison stepped off the midway and into the emigrant waiting room, watching the Pinkerton’s working on the tank locomotive through the Munich glass windows. Four of the men worked on the roof of the new railcar, welding large open baskets to each end of the armored car. Edison stood for several moments watching as the workers finished the rear basket and the men hoisted one of the gleaming Gatlings up to the roof. Then came the scratching.
Edison turned. From the far end of the room, the scratching came again.
“Sir,” came the hoarse whisper.
Edison’s eyes narrowed. Scratching again.
“Mr. Edison.”
A shadow crossed the far window.
“Randolph!” Edison shouted and ran across the room.
“Stop!” the voice implored. Edison paused halfway.
“Randolph,” Edison said slowly, “is it you?”
“It is me, sir.”
“My God, man! You’re back! I have been frantic to find you!” Edison took a step toward Randolph.
“Sir, stop. You mustn’t. You have to listen.”
“What do you mean? Why are you outside? What’s going on?” Edison took another step toward the figure behind the window.
“Don’t get any closer. Sir, listen to me. You must go with Mr. Tesla to Colorado.”
“What happened to you Randolph? What happened on the train?”
The bookkeeper exhaled in a shudder. “He came in through the window, sir. The sash had been only raised an inch. One moment nothing, the next he stood there, just like moonlight in all its splendor...”
Edison took another step.
“Don’t come any closer. You need to listen to me. I’ve been always truthful, haven’t I, sir?”
Edison paused at this, puzzled. “Yes, Randolph. You have always been truthful.”
“He towered over me as if I were a child! You mustn’t go back!” A palm came to rest gently on the window pane. “A red cloud…like the color of blood,” the voice in the dark whispered.
A chill passed through Edison. “Randolph, what has happened to you?”
“You mustn’t let the train leave without you both, sir.”
Edison edged closer to the window, but once he did, the form beyond it moved away. He sat down. “I’ve got men out looking for you, Randolph.”
“Never mind about me, sir.”
“Randolph, I am not leaving you here.” Edison stood back up.
The shadow moved away from the window quickly. “Punish me! Torture me if I am lying! We will meet you in Colorado Springs, sir. But you must go west. The both of you!”
Edison spoke very softly, “Randolph, who is that man?
Randolph chuckled, then hissed, “Man?” He was silent for several moments, then a low, calm voice spoke from beyond the window. “Isn't this a strange conversation for men who aren't crazy?”
Thomas Edison burst into the conference room. Tesla and Ida were in one corner tying metal wire into a helix. Grgor and Simon were in the opposite corner folding sheets stacked on the floor and working to secure leather harnesses to each other.
“What is it?” Ida asked, startled by his ashen face.
The great inventor fell into a large leather chair and put his face in his hands.
Finally, Edison looked up. “I found Randolph.”
Both of them came out of their chairs and rushed to Edison.
“You saw John?” Ida exclaimed. “Where is he?” She peered over his shoulder, looking for the missing bookkeeper.
“The dark man still has a hold on him.” Edison’s shoulders slumped.
“What did he say?” Tesla asked.
“It’s not important. I failed to bring him in.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket and began writing, talking softly to himself. “What did the failure reveal?” he asked aloud.
Tesla and Ida leaned into one another.
“Should we?” Tesla asked her.
“I don’t think we can wait any longer,” Ida said.
“Thomas” Tesla said as he stepped forward.
“He said I can’t go back to look for him. He told me that we—” he pointed back and forth between Tesla and himself, “we must travel together. Go on to Colorado Springs.”
After several silent moments, Tesla muttered, “Well, that is what I told you.”
“Now is not the time, Nikola,” Ida said, her hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Edison, we have a plan.”
Edison looked at each of them. “Always willing to challenge assumptions.”
Interlude 64
Saturday, March 18, 1893, 5:44 p.m.
Kansas City Union Depot
Wedderburn stood on the roof above the emigrant waiting room, watching the golden sun fall behind the horizon. Brilliant red, orange and yellow hues streaking and melding across the sky had become a perfect herald to the night. He watched the clouds cross before the sun, casting the roof into shadow, and whispered, “The sun, like a Muslim prophet, his turban has unfurled; And lo! It floats as a banner, across the western world.”
Dreadlocks crab-walked slowly out of the darkness and remained crouched low beside him. He placed a hand on her head, stroking softly. She hissed, low and hungry, at humanity moving about in the distance.
Thomas Edison and Ida Tarbell appeared on the train platform, flanked by three Pinkertons on each side. They walked shoulder to shoulder with the pair, and the size of the bounty hunters and their draping tan coats overshadowed them, their heads barely coming up to the shoulders of the men around them.
Three more Pinkertons stood alert on the train watching both up and down the platform and across the empty yard. Brummel stood alone on the rear observation platform. As the group approached, he opened the thick metal door and stood back. The Pinkertons stuck closely, forming a wall on the stairs as they ascended and entered the car. The huge door closed behind them, and a thick bolt could be heard, locking the door from the interior. Then the stocky bounty hunter climbed up into his gun perch.
Vasili stood between an enormous black Pinkerton with bulging biceps and a boxer’s face and a stocky bounty hunter with a Walrus mustache and a Remington pistol on each hip. Their wide brim cavalry hats matched their pale long coats. Three more hired guns sat lazily against the edge of the open boxcar, playing cards.
“What the hell are we doing here?” muttered the black bounty hunter.
The enormous, muscular man with a long graying beard and bored eyes stood like a mountain. “Is job. Job is protect train. Vasili protect train.” Vasili patted the Remington at his right hip. “Gun protect train.” He then patted the Russian scabbard on his other hip. “Shashka protect train. Then Vasili go home.”
The stocky bounty hunter stroked his mustache. “Still, it’s a little weird in’nit? I mean, it's like we’re going into a war. Some shit-brained bookkeeper falls off a train, stone-sober it's said. You tell me the last time you heard of that happening.” He threw up his hands.
Vasili grunted.
The black Pinkerton turned to him, pulled out one of his Colt Dragoons and checked its chambers. He shook his head. “What the hell are we supposed to be watching for?” the Colt expert said, louder this time.
Two long whistles from the engine signaled all preparations were complete for the train to leave the station. Once again, the train moved east. The Gunslinger turned from the sunset, his eyes glaring, and lifted his hand from atop Dreadlocks’ head. With a flick of his wrist, the submissive vampire became ephemeral.
A scraping sound made Vasili look up into the dark rafters of the Union Depot. No one else reacted. They were too busy moving about the train. Then he saw something move in his peripheral vision and the blade withdrawn from the scabbard on his hip sang through the air in the blink of an eye.
He could sense the stocky Pinkerton start to draw his Remington, but he was too late. It never happened. A phantom shape hit the Pinkerton and took him off his feet.
Vasili’s blade whipped through the air a split second in front of the moving object and should have struck something. Instead it only whistled through open space. The apparition tossed the Pinkerton fifty feet across the platform where he landed in a heap, sans head, with the wet plop of overripe fruit. Vasili’s blade hung in the air the long moment it took the shape to deposit the carcass across the way, and the Russian gripped the blade with both hands as he stared into the darkness. The train gave another twin blast and he backed up slowly.
“Bollocks!” exclaimed the black Pinkerton.
All across the platform, Pinkertons scrambled. There had been no noise, no cry, no shout, nothing but the song of the Russian’s blade through the air and a distant plop to indicate anything had happened. But these were professional gunfighters and killers. They had a sense of something. Wide brimmed cavalry hats angled upwards and eyes moved i
n every direction.
A bounty hunter with a double-barreled Hollenbeck in his arms slid two gleaming shells out of his bandolier. Another Pinkerton beside him who had long locks of yellow curly hair and a thick handlebar mustache, much like the late General Custer, cradled a crossbow with a Colt Navy Revolver on each hip.
“I put half a roll of silver dimes in every bullet. That’s five dollars every time I shoot my pretty gal,” the bandolier bounty hunter said softly.
“What do you think is going on?” asked the Custer look-alike.
“I don’t know and I don’t care. Next thing that bothers me, I’m going to give ‘em a taste.”
Bounty hunters climbed atop the armored freight car, two men into each chamber.
In the forward stall closest to the engine, the black Pinkerton held the stock and trigger of the Gatling steady. Brummel, with his back to him, stood nearly two heads shorter and held a twenty-four-inch searchlight in his hands. It resembled a normal light, if such a thing could be said of a wireless lamp with a violet bulb in its center. It cast a purplish hue in its strobe.
“I don’t get it,” Brummel said, examining the lamp and shining it on the ceiling.
“It’s supposed to be powered by high frequency waves,” the huge Pinkerton said, glancing back.
The two Pinkertons in the rear stall also each manned a Gatling gun and a searchlight.
“So what do I call you?” Brummel asked over his shoulder.
“They call me Johnson.”
“Never met a Negro Pinkerton before.”
“Neither had the men at the Burlington Strike.”
“You were there?” Brummel looked over his shoulder. “You protected the women and children?”
“To the very end,” Johnson muttered.
The Pinkertons were all on board now. The train shuddered as it picked up pace. Four Pinkertons were on the rear observation deck. Custer banged on the heavy door. It opened and he, Vasilia, and another Pinkerton slipped inside. A Pinkerton stood guard outside the door, wearing an assortment of 1847 Walker Colts festooned across his chest and at each hip under his duster