If Killian pressed him for a result, Thomas decided he would report that the tall suspect was likely one of the McKinley's own men. That the whole affair was a bloody feud between the McKinley family and the black market. It was a plausible story; the McKinleys had plenty of tall men on their payroll.
If Killian didn't believe him, he could investigate it himself. As far as Thomas was concerned, he had done his due diligence.
He couldn't help but sneer internally. The Irish now held over half of all law enforcement positions in America, and they worked hand-in-glove with the Irish street gangs, turning the cities into a corrupt cesspool. These thugs bullied the honest merchants in the markets and brutalized the miners. They were a disgrace.
The thought that the McKinley manor had been nearly destroyed, their losses catastrophic, filled him with a grim, satisfying pleasure.
Miles away, in a manor in Chicago, a white-haired man in his sixties spoke to a hawk-nosed subordinate. "Hunter, I want you in Denver tomorrow. Find out what happened to the black market. Start with Bowie at the Pinkerton's office. He has been instructed to cooperate and provide you with armed support if necessary."
"Do the Pinkertons have any leads?" Hunter asked.
The old man handed him a file. "Bowie's primary suspects are the Sinclair family and a young gunslinger named Henry Bruce. The file contains everything we know. Your objective is to ascertain the truth. Avoid a direct, large-scale conflict with the Sinclair's private forces if at all possible."
"Understood," Hunter said, taking the file.
At the McKinley manor, Brendan and Rocky listened grimly to Elendt's report.
"Professor Johnson from the university's civil engineering department has agreed to help, but he's too old to make the climb up to the manor. He has sent for two of his best students from Omaha, but they won't arrive in Denver until tomorrow evening at the earliest. They can't begin their survey until the 23rd."
"The Pinkertons are also consolidating their forces. They will only agree to lease us a maximum of fifty of their patrolmen, and they've raised their price by twenty percent."
Brendan waved his hand, dismissing the steward. When they were alone, he turned to Rocky.
"The banker, Russell, in New York, sent another telegram today. We have to get the mines back online, and soon. If word of this gets out, our company's stock will plummet."
"I want you to pull half of the guards from the Arizona operation and send them here. We'll hire the fifty Pinkertons as well," Brendan decided. "Put Eoin in charge. I want him and the Pinkertons at the mine tomorrow, restoring order."
Brendan was at his limit. He had lost over 300 of his own men, plus the 200 mercenaries Henry had wiped out. His own power was severely diminished; he was now forced to rely on the other family elders.
"What about the Sinclairs, and Henry?" Rocky asked.
"Once the road is cleared, I will go to the Wells Fargo office here and ask them to arrange a meeting with Gavin Sinclair," Brendan said. "As for Henry… we will deal with him after we have come to an agreement with the Sinclairs. But make no mistake. We will not let that devil, the one who has spilled so much of our family's blood, go unpunished."
Rocky considered this for a long moment, then nodded. "I'll send the orders to Arizona in the morning."
After dinner, Henry joined Richard in the study for cigars. Zhang Tianyuan, in his past life, had been a heavy smoker. Henry had decided to forswear cigarettes, but a good cigar was another matter. He expertly clipped and lit the Punch cigar, taking a slow, appreciative puff.
"Henry," Richard said, exhaling a cloud of smoke, "did you hear what happened at the black market, and at the McKinley manor?"
Henry leaned back in his chair. "They put a ten-thousand-dollar bounty on my head," he said, his voice a low, casual drawl. "So… you understand."
Richard's cigar nearly fell from his fingers. He had never expected such a direct, unashamed admission.
Henry's voice was a soft, chilling whisper. "An old mentor of mine once told me: be as warm as the spring wind to your friends, and as merciless as the winter to your enemies. I find I agree with him. Don't you, Richard?"
"I do," Richard said, his voice firm. "Your mentor was a wise man."
The two men talked for over an hour. When the cigars were finished, they retired to their rooms.
Henry locked his door and took out the safe from the black market. After half an hour of delicate work, the lock clicked open.
Inside, he found $2,000 in small bills, one hundred 1-ounce gold bars, five large gemstones, and three property deeds—one for a property in Denver, one in San Francisco, and one in Chicago. In America, you didn't just buy a house; you bought the land beneath it, a permanent and absolute right.
He stored everything away. He would have a lawyer look into transferring the deeds to his name when he had the time. The gold alone was worth another $4,000. It seemed the black market chief had been preparing a getaway fund.
It was still early, not yet 10 PM. He thought about his conversations with Richard and Edith. He had been direct with Richard for a reason. A potential partner needed to understand the full extent of his capabilities and his methods.
As for Edith… he had to admit, he was drawn to her beauty. But the women of this era, especially those of the upper class, were bound by a strict code of conduct. A woman's entire social standing was determined by her marriage. He had been hurt by love in his past life; he knew that a woman needed companionship, a steadfast presence. He was not yet ready for that.
For now, he would simply leave a lasting impression. In his past life, he had never been the pursuer in a relationship. He had always been the pursued. He believed that a man simply needed to display his best qualities. If you bloom, the breeze will come to you.
With his thoughts clear, Henry sat down and began to read through the intelligence files he had taken from the black market.
At 11 PM, he went out into the garden and gathered his deputies. He paid them a bonus: twenty dollars each for Charles and Owen, ten for the others.
"Pete and I will continue on to New York with Linda's party tomorrow," he announced. "Charles, Owen, after you see us off in the morning, you will lead the rest of the men back to Frisco. Report to Luke and Whitey."
He then walked over to Bick. "If you want to work for me, you will follow my rules. One: you will not engage in robbery. Two: you will not harm women or children. Can you do that?"
"Yes, Sheriff Henry! I can!" the young outlaw replied without hesitation.
"Think carefully before you answer," Henry said, his voice flat. "If you break my rules, the price is your life."
"I'm sure, Sheriff. I can do it," Bick said, thumping his chest.
Henry handed him twenty dollars. "Alright. After we leave tomorrow, you will check into the Aston Hotel. Ten dollars of this is for your expenses. I want you to find out everything you can about the Denver Vigilance Committee—who runs it, what businesses they own, how they're connected. I also want to know about the local gangs—their leaders, their numbers, their territories. Your safety is the first priority. When I return, I will find you at the hotel. Have you got all that?"
Bick's head was spinning. "I… I think so, Sheriff. Could you say it one more time?"
Henry repeated the instructions. He was pleased to see the young man muttering the orders to himself, committing them to memory.
The next morning, when Henry came downstairs for breakfast, the others were already there. He was dressed in a gray tuxedo with a bow tie, a black bowler hat, and black deerskin shoes. The suit was a twentieth birthday gift from Mayor William, the only one he owned. But if he was going to be traveling in a Pullman car, he had to look the part.
He couldn't just shoot every passenger who gave him a funny look, after all.
Out of the kindness of his heart, he had decided to dress up.
Pete's jaw dropped so far that a piece of toast fell from his mouth.
Henry just smiled and wished everyone a good morning.