The main gate of the complex was wide enough for three wagons to pass through abreast.
It was currently closed tight. A team of three guards patrolled the gatehouse with a German Shepherd.
Inside the factory grounds, two ten-meter-high stone watchtowers stood sentinel, each mounting a Gatling gun and manned by five soldiers. One gun was aimed down the road Henry was on; the other covered the road leading down from the mountain where the ore was transported.
Three hundred meters upriver from the factory was a small residential area of two-story wooden houses, likely for the factory staff and guards. The miners, he presumed, lived up at the mine itself.
At this time of day, there were no more ore deliveries, and no visitors were expected. A lone, masked rider appearing at the entrance to their private road was an obvious and immediate threat.
Henry hadn't expected the eight-mile mountain road to take him nearly an hour. With nightfall approaching, he had no time for a more cautious approach. If he left his horse tied up in the wilderness for more than half an hour after dark, he'd likely come back to find nothing but bones. And without long-range night vision, he couldn't gather much more intelligence anyway.
It was time to go loud. His margin for error was wide enough. He knew a place like this would be heavily guarded, at least as well as Dwyer Manor. He was prepared to be spotted.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
He reined in his horse, slowing its pace, and raised his rifle. The five sentries in the nearest watchtower, who had been laughing and talking, were all hit. Three of them pitched forward and fell ten meters to the ground below. After a long day with no sign of trouble, they had grown lax.
The three guards at the gate immediately returned fire, and their German Shepherd charged toward him, a low growl rumbling in its chest.
Henry ignored them, keeping his aim on the second watchtower. But the men there had reacted. One of them, too slow to find cover, was hit and fell. The others ducked behind the stone parapet and began to swing their own machine gun around.
Henry shifted his fire to the three men at the gate. Three more shots, and they were all down. The fifteen rounds in his "One of One Thousand" were spent.
He instantly swapped it for the second one, putting a single bullet through the head of the charging German Shepherd, which had closed to within a hundred meters. It died instantly, its body skidding another dozen meters from its own momentum.
It had been less than ten seconds since he'd opened fire. The second machine gun still wasn't in position. With his enhanced agility, Henry could now empty a Winchester in under nine seconds.
He put another bullet into each of the three downed gate guards, then wrenched his horse's head around and galloped away.
The 350-meter road was a downward slope on the way in; now it was a steep climb. By the time he had galloped a few dozen meters and turned back onto the main mountain path, the roar of a Gatling gun finally erupted behind him.
The four remaining sentries had done well. Under fire, they had managed to get their massive gun turned and firing in about fifteen seconds.
Henry didn't look back. He spurred his horse and rode hard for Frisco.
Because he had been firing from horseback, he had aimed for center mass rather than headshots, which was why he'd had to finish off the gate guards. Their eight or nine return shots had cost him eight of his white pearl husks. The cost was doubled because the shield had expanded to cover his horse, making him a larger target. But he had also gained one new white pearl and eight grey ones. All nine of the men he had hit were confirmed kills. It was a worthy trade.
The four remaining sentries, likely panicked, continued to rake the empty road with machine gun fire for over a minute.
Inside the factory, over thirty more guards had come running. The commander on duty, a man named Tom, saw no enemy. "John, what in the hell are you doing?!" he roared. Tom was a mountain of a man, his body a mass of coiled muscle.
John, the man cranking the Gatling gun, finally snapped out of it and stopped firing.
"Report, sir!" he yelled down. "An enemy appeared at the junction and opened fire with a rifle! Harry's entire team is down! Terry is dead up here! And Jordan's team at the gate is down too!"
"Where is the enemy?"
"He turned and fled when we opened fire!"
"You two," Tom commanded, "go check on Harry and Jordan's teams. The rest of you, form two squads and come with me. We're sweeping the area."
A dozen minutes later, Tom returned from his fruitless search. He received the report: all nine men were dead.
Who was that madman? he thought, a cold fury rising in his chest. To attack like that, fire a few shots, and then just run? It makes no sense!
But the man's marksmanship had been terrifying. A madman was one thing. A madman who was a master gunslinger was another thing entirely. He wore a mask, but he was no Indian. No one in the local tribes could shoot like that.
Then, a chilling thought struck him. The letter from Sean, two days ago. It had mentioned a man named Henry.
Could it be?
He is here.
It took Henry over an hour to get back. He stabled his horse, carefully checked the leaf in his door jamb, and then went inside. He sensed no danger. He took a hot shower, washing away the scent of gunpowder and the dust of the road.
Tonight's raid had yielded 22 white pearls and 35 grey, with only one of the white pearls containing a skill. His progress bar was now at 75.5%.
He changed his clothes and walked to the Phoenix Saloon.
He didn't linger in the main hall, just gave a nod to the familiar faces who called out to him, and went straight up to his private room. He told Trish to send Drummond to him.
The saloon owner arrived a moment later.
"I need explosives," Henry said, getting straight to the point. "And electric delay detonators. TNT is best, but dynamite will do. As much as you can get, at least two hundred pounds. And I need it tonight."
"The delay on the detonators needs to be between three and five seconds. Get it done as fast as you can."
Drummond just nodded and left to make the arrangements.
This was a mining town. Explosives were a common commodity. The department's own storeroom had over a ton of dynamite, but Henry didn't want the Mayor to know what he was planning. William would suspect, of course, but suspicion wasn't proof.