"I am Old Hans," the man said. "Who might you be?"
"My name is Henry. The farmer down the road told me you might be looking to sell your farm. Could we talk?"
Old Hans looked him over, then nodded. "Of course. Please, come in."
Henry led his horse into the farmstead and saw another elderly German, a woman, working near the house. He tied his horse to a post and sat with Old Hans on a wooden bench in the shade of a large tree.
"This farm is 120 acres," the old man began, getting straight to the point. "It was passed down to me from my father. We grow corn, alfalfa, and soybeans, and we have a few dozen dairy cows and a dozen horses. We also have camphor, maple, cherry, peach, and apple trees."
"My children and grandchildren all live and work in New York and Philadelphia," he continued, a note of sadness in his voice. "They don't want to take over the farm. So, we're looking for a buyer who will take good care of the place."
"The land is A-grade. I'm asking sixty dollars an acre, not including the livestock. And you must agree not to fire any of the current workers for at least a year, and you cannot lower their wages."
Henry knew the price was more than fair. And the old man's concern for his workers spoke volumes about his character.
"The price is no problem," Henry said with a smile. "But may I ask, where will you go after you sell? And would you be willing to stay on and manage the farm for me?"
A look of surprise and pleasure crossed the old man's face. He glanced at his wife, then turned back to Henry. "We were planning to visit our children, but we are in no hurry. If you were to hire us, we could stay on for another two or three years."
"Excellent. May I have a tour?"
An hour later, the two men returned to the bench. Henry was satisfied. 120 acres was more than enough space. The stables could hold over 200 horses. It would be a perfect training ground, a secure base of operations, and a peaceful retreat.
He paid a one-thousand-dollar deposit and offered the old couple a generous salary of fifteen dollars a week to stay on as managers. He then promised to return with a lawyer to finalize the sale within ten days and rode back to Chicago.
He arrived at the livestock exchange around 1 PM and rented three more stables. He then spent the next few hours transferring sixty more of his horses from his storage space, clearing up another twenty-five cubic meters.
As he was leaving the stables, a man in a suit stopped him. "Good day, sir. My name is Kenneth. Might I interest you in a property insurance policy?"
Henry just shook his head and walked away.
He returned to the warehouse and swapped out some of the liquor and ammunition for the copper ingots, then extended the lease on the warehouse and the stables for another week.
It was 3 PM. He rode for the train station on the west side of the city. He didn't want to move all of his horses to the farm just yet; they were warhorses and required special feed. It was a minor expense.
He found a 6:15 PM Pullman sleeper to Pittsburgh, a fifteen-hour journey. He had two hours to wait. He settled into the private passenger lounge and began to read through his intelligence files.
In Frisco, Mayor William received a telegram from his son, Marvin, confirming that Alice and the Pete's would be departing that afternoon. Just then, his investigator, Raphael, entered the room.
"Mayor, the Denver Marshal's office just sent a telegram. The tracking party they sent after Duncan and Black Caesar went into the desert four days ago and hasn't been heard from since."
William's brow furrowed. "Any word from Henry?"
"No, sir. But there was another incident in Chicago last night. The headquarters of the black market and the Pinkertons were both destroyed. Hundreds dead. The methods were identical to the attacks in New York and Denver. Allan and Robert Pinkerton, and the black market chief, Morrison, have all vanished."
William's mind reeled at the staggering numbers. He remembered Allan Pinkerton from his younger days, a brilliant and ambitious man. He was amazed that he had so completely misjudged the quiet boy he had known for twenty years.
But he felt no fear of Henry. He was confident that, as savage as he was to his enemies, to his own people, Henry was still a good kid.