Henry ordered another double portion for dinner. Shortly after he'd finished eating, Drummond returned. He had procured 200 pounds of TNT and forty electric delay detonators, packed in three crates and waiting in a carriage outside.
The whole lot cost less than ten dollars. Henry put it on his tab, drove the carriage back to his house, transferred the crates to his storage space, and then returned the carriage to the saloon.
Afterward, he began his nightly patrol, focusing his attention on the area around Linda's house. He finished an hour earlier than usual, returning home just before midnight.
He counted the cash from the day's looting: $1,023.80. A nice little bonus.
His biggest problem now was dogs. With them on guard, a silent infiltration was impossible. And the man who had drugged Paul hadn't dropped a skill pearl for pharmacology. He'd found a few vials on the man's body, but without labels, they were useless until he could test them on some animals.
If he couldn't sneak in, he would have to go in loud.
Since a blood feud had already been declared, he couldn't allow a snake like Sean McKinley to continue plotting against him in the shadows. He had already survived multiple assassination attempts. It was time to end it.
He adjusted his plan. First, he would "release" Sean. Then, he would shut down the mine. After that, when he escorted Linda to Denver, he would "release" Brendan.
He didn't know who the other powers behind the mine were, but that didn't matter. He would make them come to him. Killing Sean and Brendan wouldn't make his situation any worse. He might not be able to legally seize the mine yet, but he could certainly ensure that no one could operate it without his permission. Once they understood that, they would be ready to negotiate.
The only risk was that he would invite an even more ferocious counter-attack. But did he fear a fresh supply of Release Pearls?
Henry spent the next half hour assembling the explosives, creating five 20-pound charges and twenty 5-pound charges, all tightly bound with rope. Hand grenades were still a primitive technology in this era, so he had to make his own improvised bombs. The 5-pounders were fitted with 3-second detonators, the 20-pounders with 5-second ones. They lacked the shrapnel of a modern grenade, but the sheer concussive force would be devastating.
When he was finished, he used the white skill pearl he had acquired earlier that day.
Instantly, the warm current washed over him. He was flooded with a new set of memories—a childhood fascination with magic, a life spent mastering the arts of escape, sleight of hand, and misdirection.
A minute later, he was himself again. A new skill had appeared on his panel: Magic LV 3.
This skill was a godsend.
The people of this era were obsessed with magic and spiritualism. It was the age of the great stage magicians. In 1856, Napoleon III had even sent a French magician, Robert-Houdin, to quell a rebellion, believing his magic was real. And it had worked.
Robert-Houdin had transformed magic from a simple street performance into a legitimate art form, welcomed into the parlors of the upper class. Now, magicians performed in tailcoats for high society. The Maskelyne family in England had a magical dynasty that had lasted for over a century. Conjuring eggs and coins was child's play; the great magicians of the day performed feats of invulnerability, levitation, and even catching bullets in their teeth.
The original Henry knew it was all just a series of clever tricks. His own cousin, George Bruce, had told him so. George was the only relative he had ever known, a charming, thirty-year-old wanderer who looked remarkably like the movie star George Clooney from Henry's past life. He had visited Frisco twice, staying for a month each time, the last visit being five years ago. He claimed to be a great magician and had even tried to teach Henry a few tricks. But the original Henry, like his grandfather, had a practical, no-nonsense personality and had no interest in learning the art of deception.
Now, this new skill was the perfect cover.
If he was ever in a tight spot and needed to produce a pistol or a knife from thin air, he now had a plausible explanation. An explanation with a clear, verifiable history. It greatly expanded the situations in which he could safely use his storage space, providing him with a massive increase in overt security. He had always been careful, but in a moment of life or death, the instinct to draw a weapon from his space might be too strong to suppress.
He had no interest in becoming a professional magician, but he could use a few simple tricks to entertain children, impress women, and, most importantly, provide a cover for his true abilities. LV 3 was more than enough.
He set his alarm clock, reined in his excitement, and went to bed. He had less than three hours to sleep.
At 4 AM, he was awake. He ate a quick meal and rode out of town.
Forty minutes later, he reached the turnoff to Dwyer Manor. He dismounted and began the rest of the journey on foot.
He now had enough pearl husks to withstand thirty machine gun rounds. He thought for a moment, then consumed 25 white pearls and 36 grey ones. He now had enough stored energy to upgrade any of his LV 3 skills to LV 4. He decided to save it. His defensive shields were now strong enough to withstand thirty-seven machine gun rounds. It should be safe enough.
He pulled his mask over his face and moved silently toward the manor, reaching the final bend in the road a dozen minutes later. The sky was still pitch black. He swapped his riding boots for a pair of soft cloth shoes.
The final, straight stretch of road was illuminated by eighteen gas lamps, one every fifty meters, mounted on the rock face to his left and on trees to his right. It wasn't as bright as day, but it was enough for the sentries to spot an enemy and open fire with the Gatling guns.
He took out his "One of One Thousand" Winchester and stepped out from behind the corner.
His first shots were for the two exposed sentries in the watchtowers.