At the entrance of Shaft No. 3 of the Black Stone Mine in Schuylkill County, a cold wind mixed with hard snow particles struck people's faces with painful force.
Miller was wearing a heavy wool coat and his usual cowhide military boots, currently stepping through ankle-deep coal sludge.
He stood at the edge of the coal storage yard, holding a monocular telescope to observe the distant railway branch line.
Behind him was an engineering team just transferred by Saineng Minerals from New York and New Jersey, along with a squad of fully armed Vanguard Security personnel.
"No movement."
Miller lowered the telescope and exhaled a cloud of white vapor.
"That Gowen (President of the Reading Railroad) is determined to starve us out."
Hans Jaeger, the former mine owner who had just signed his life away and was now the mine manager hired by Saineng Minerals, ran over panting, black ice crystals hanging from his beard.
"Mr. Miller!" Jaeger's voice was tinged with despair.
"I just went to the Pottsville station, and the station master wouldn't even let me in. He said the dispatch room is broken and the switches are frozen. In short, his excuse is that not a single empty railcar will enter our branch line for half a month."
"Half a month?"
Miller gave a cold laugh and pulled a cigar from his coat pocket.
"In half a month, the steel furnaces in New Jersey will have cooled completely. Gowen doesn't just want to starve us; he wants us to spit out the meat we've already swallowed."
The Reading Railroad is the absolute hegemon of this anthracite coal region.
They not only own the railways but also directly own most of the mines through holding subsidiaries.
Felix having Miller buy the Black Stone Mine was like plunging a knife into Gowen's backyard.
"Boss."
A short, stocky man wearing a flat cap with a coal dust mark on his face walked over.
His name was Jack Kehoe.
On the surface, he was the foreman of the Black Stone Mine, but in the underworld, he was the leader of the "Molly Maguires," a secret organization that struck fear into the hearts of people in this area.
This secret society, composed of Irish immigrants, was accustomed to using explosives and hidden guns to fight against the exploitation of mine owners.
However, after Miller took over the mine and actually followed through on paying full wages with Imperial Bank Cashier's Checks, Kehoe's attitude underwent a subtle change.
"That station master is lying." Kehoe spat black phlegm onto the ground.
"In the middle of last night, I was crouching on the ridge with my brothers. I saw with my own eyes two lines of empty cars being pulled into the neighboring Pottsville Mine. That's Reading Railroad's own mine. They're intentionally blocking us, wanting this pile of coal to rot at the pithead."
Kehoe touched his waist, where a short-barreled flintlock was bulging under his clothes.
"Mr. Miller, do you want me to go show that station master some color? I can take some men to smash that lock, or... make sure that station master watches his step at night. I guarantee it'll be a clean job."
"No." Miller waved his hand.
"That's the lowest-level approach. Jack, you must remember, we are respectable businessmen now. If we smash the lock, the police will have a reason to station themselves at the mine. Gowen is just waiting for us to make a mistake."
"Then what should we do?"
Jaeger looked at the mountain-like pile of processed coal.
"Two thousand tons of coal. If it isn't moved soon, the storage yard will be full. The brothers down in the shafts will have to stop work."
"Stop work?" Miller turned around and looked at the two of them. "In Argyle' dictionary, there is no such phrase as 'stop work'."
Miller pointed to a wasteland at the edge of the mine. It was piled high with firebricks, iron bars, and clay that had just been delivered by Argyle Bank wagons.
"Jack, tell your brothers to stop digging coal. I want you to go build furnaces."
"Furnaces?" Kehoe was stunned for a moment. "In this dead of winter, are we building furnaces for warmth?"
"I mentioned it before—coke Ovens," Miller explained.
"Since they won't transport coal, we'll turn the coal into coke. Burn off the impurities, reduce the volume by half, and double the heating value. That's the high-grade fuel essential for steelmaking."
"But the coke still needs to be transported."
"That's a matter for half a month from now."
Miller looked toward the distant valley, where the muffled sound of explosions could be heard faintly.
"The engineering team over there is blasting the mountain. We're going to build a narrow-gauge railway only ten miles long, bypassing Reading's territory and connecting directly to the main line of the Pennsylvania Railroad."
"But before the road is finished..."
Miller pointed to the nearby stables.
There, dozens of strong draft horses were eating hay, and fifty modified heavy sleds were parked nearby.
"The snow has been heavy these past few days." Miller looked at Kehoe. "Since the trains aren't running, we'll use sleds to pull it, just as I said before. We'll pull the refined coke, wagon by wagon, to the transfer station ten miles away."
"This... isn't the cost too high?" Jaeger clicked his tongue on the side.
"Labor, horse feed, and all this trouble. Shipping a ton of coke this way will be more expensive than gold."
"High?" Miller looked at the coal mountain, his gaze firm.
"For ordinary people, this is a loss, but for the Boss, this is strategic. The steel furnaces in New Jersey cannot stop; even if we have to pave the road with gold, we must send the fuel there."
"Jack, gather the men," Miller ordered.
"Triple wages. I want to see the first batch of coke come out of the ovens within three days. Any problems?"
Kehoe looked at Miller, a touch of admiration growing in his eyes.
The Irish respected tough men, and they also respected those with ability who dared to spend money.
"No problem, Boss."
Kehoe bit his cigar, revealing a mouth of yellow teeth.
"As long as the money is right, never mind building furnaces—we'd carry this coal out on our backs if we had to. the brothers have been wanting to see those Reading Railroad bastards suffer for a long time."
...Late at night three days later.
At the edge of the Black Stone Mine, a row of arched brick beehive coke Ovens had miraculously risen.
Though crude, they were sufficient for use.
The workers chanted rhythmic calls as they filled the tops of the ovens with crushed processed coal.
"Light it up!" Miller commanded.
Billowing black smoke rose, which soon turned into a dark red glow, illuminating the entire river valley.
Fifty sleds filled with glowing hot coke formed a long line amidst the neighing of draft horses.
Two Vanguard members with rifles sat on each sled to prevent any sabotage.
"Yah!"
The drivers cracked their whips.
The sleds ground over the frozen river valley, bypassed the locked train station, and sped toward the Pennsylvania Railroad freight yard to the east.
The firelight reflected off the snow and also illuminated the gap in the Reading Railroad's blockade.
In Philadelphia, when Gowen, the president of the Reading Railroad, received the news, he was so angry he smashed the teacup in his hand.
He thought he could starve out this intruder, but he didn't expect the other party not only to survive but to start taking root, building factories, and even turning those originally unruly Irish thugs into his own private soldiers.
Meanwhile, in New York, on the top floor of the Empire Bank Building.
Felix looked at the telegram Miller had sent back and simply drew a circle on the map.
"Tell Coleman the coke is on the way."
"Also, notify Miller. Since Gowen likes playing at blockades, we'll play with him to the end. Have Miller continue acquiring surrounding mines, whether using money or fists."
"We must make the Reading Railroad in Schuylkill County become a piece of scrap iron with no freight to pull."
Washington D.C.
The dome of the Capitol Building shone with a white light under the early spring sun.
But beneath that dome, in smoke-filled committee offices, an invisible war more brutal than any battlefield was being waged.
For the House Committee on Ways and Means was deliberating the Tariff Act of 1866.
Its core provision concerned the tariff rates on imported iron and steel products.
Pennsylvania's steel tycoons, the so-called "Iron Party," were lobbying congressmen with all their might, demanding that the tariff on imported steel rails be raised from the current 30% to 60%.
Their stated reasons were high-minded.
They claimed it was to protect the nascent domestic industry and for the sake of national security.
After all, if a country had to import all its steel, it was undoubtedly handing over its lifeblood.
Therefore, the tariff on steel imports had to be raised!
But everyone knew the real reason: British Bessemer rails were of high quality and low price.
If allowed to be dumped, America's traditional ironworks would all go bankrupt. And Felix's Lex Steel Company was the driving force behind this "protectionist war."
In a corner of the hallway, smoke hung heavy in the air.
Felix was leaning by the window, talking in low tones with a balding man.
Justin Morrill, a Representative and the primary drafter of this tariff bill.
"Mr. Argyle."
Morrill wiped his glasses, his tone somewhat anxious.
"The resistance is immense. The representatives of the railway companies, especially Vanderbilt's people, are opposing this frantically. They say raising the tariff will increase construction costs and hinder the development of the West."
"And..." Morrill lowered his voice.
"Most importantly, the Democratic Party is being difficult. They've always advocated for free trade, representing the interests of Southern agriculture and New York importers and exporters. If they vote against it en masse, along with some Republicans worried about the West... this bill won't pass."
"Ha... Morrill, don't worry about the Democratic Party."
Felix pulled an exquisite silver cigarette case from his pocket and handed it to Morrill.
I've already spoken with August Belmont. This time, most of the Northern Democratic congressmen will abstain, or even vote in favor."
Hearing this, Morrill's hand trembled, nearly dropping the cigarette case.
He looked at Felix in surprise, finding it somewhat unbelievable.
"You mean Belmont? The Rothschild agent? That die-hard Democratic whip? How could he possibly agree..."
"Because it's a deal," Felix didn't explain much further.
This was the reward he got for showing mercy in the South and not uprooting the Democratic Party entirely.
Politics is the art of compromise, or rather, the art of dividing the spoils.
"As for Vanderbilt..."
A cold smile curled at the corner of Felix's mouth.
"The Commodore recently ordered twenty thousand tons of steel rails from the Sheffield Steel Mills in Britain, and they haven't arrived yet. If the tariff is suddenly raised, he'll have to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars more in taxes. Of course he's anxious."
"Mr. Representative, you only need to emphasize one point at the hearing: without a strong domestic steel industry, if another war breaks out or Europe blockades us, America's railways will be paralyzed, and our warships will have no armor."
"National defense," Felix tapped Morrill's chest.
"That is a word no one dares to oppose, especially right after we've won a civil war."
...At two o'clock in the afternoon, the hearing began.
The meeting room was packed. The air was sweltering, thick with the scent of sweat and anxiety.
A congressman representing the interests of importers was speaking passionately:
"...This is robbery! This is forcing consumers to buy expensive and inferior domestic goods! Look at the domestic steel now—Lex Steel's products have such a high defect rate, how can they compare with British goods? We cannot sacrifice the development speed of the entire West for the sake of so-called domestic industrial growth!"
A buzz of discussion rose from the audience, and Vanderbilt's lobbyists clapped vigorously.
It was Secretary Thomas Clark's turn to speak.
Although he was the Secretary of the Interior, he was also a veteran Senator from Pennsylvania and Felix's steadfast ally in Washington.
Clark walked up to the podium without a script. He also gestured for an assistant to bring up something covered with a red cloth.
"Gentlemen, Senators. I just heard someone say that domestic steel is inferior. Oh heavens, God as my witness, that is complete nonsense. After all, the guns and cannons our army uses are made of Lex Steel. And..."
He suddenly whipped off the red cloth.
It was a dark, curved steel plate with a metallic luster.
This is the 'Armor Steel' that Lex Steel Company has just successfully trialed."
Clark patted the steel plate, which produced a dull thud.
"Just last week, the Militech's range tests proved that even a 12-pound Napoleon Cannon cannot penetrate it within five hundred yards."
"The British won't sell us this kind of steel. They'll only sell us rails, keeping us as their colony forever."
Clark scanned the room, his gaze burning like fire.
"If we are to build a strong navy, if we are to defend our coastline, we must build it ourselves. And to build it ourselves, we must give our factories a chance to survive—even if that chance comes at a high price."
"I support the Morrill Tariff Act. This isn't for Argyle; it's for the backbone of America."
The voting session.
Something that shocked everyone occurred.
The New York Democratic congressmen, who had always opposed high tariffs, seemed to suffer from collective amnesia after receiving a few mysterious notes, raising their hands one after another to vote in favor or abstain.
Vanderbilt's lobbyists turned pale; they knew the tide had turned.
Final result: 108 in favor, 65 against.
The Tariff Act of 1866 was passed. The tariff rate on imported steel rails was locked at over 45% per ton.
The moment the gavel fell, Felix stood up, straightened his collar, and walked out of the meeting room.
In the hallway, he ran into Vanderbilt's lead attorney. The poor fellow was sweating profusely, clearly at a loss for how to explain this to his furious Boss.
"Go back and tell the Commodore," Felix said, stopping and smiling.
"British steel is too expensive. Lex Steel will have new products coming out next month. As an old customer, he can have a ten percent discount. Of course, it must be in cash."
This was the wall.
Felix had used political deals to build a high wall for the steel mill he had just fired up.
This wall blocked out cheap British goods and shut Vanderbilt out.
From this day forward, America's railway tycoons had no choice.
They could only buy Felix's steel.
While Felix was winning the steel tariff battle, in the Nebraska Territory, specifically the Platte River Valley...
The road-building army of the Union Pacific Railroad was crawling westward like a greedy giant worm.
'Hell on Wheels,' the temporary camp that moved with the railway, was filled with tents, makeshift shacks, brothels, gambling dens, and the smell of cheap whiskey.
Over ten thousand Irish laborers, veterans, gamblers, and prostitutes gathered here.
On the edge of the camp stood a wooden shack with a sign that read 'Metropolitan Trading Company Western Office.'
Bill was sitting by the stove in the room, holding an account book.
His face was tanned dark by the western winds and sand, and his eyes held a ruthless glint.
As the head of the Metropolitan Trading Company, he not only controlled the slaughterhouses in Chicago but was also responsible for providing all food supplies for this railway artery.
Sitting opposite him was Rambo, the captain of the Vanguard Security Western Detachment.
Rambo was using an oilcloth to wipe a newly arrived 'Vanguard Model 1864' rotary machine gun.
"Fuck... that madman Durant."
Bill cursed, slamming the account book onto the table.
"To rush the schedule and grab more per-mile subsidies, he actually had the workers lay sleepers on frozen ground. The roadbed isn't stable at all. When the summer thaw comes, the rails will definitely warp. Damn it!"
"Mr. Bill, that's none of our business," Rambo chimed in without looking up.
"After all, our mission is to secure the land. As long as the railway passes through, the twenty miles of land on either side belongs to us. The documents are all in the safe."
"But the problem is, it can't pass through now, you know that, Rambo?"
Bill stood up in anger and walked to the parchment map hanging on the wall.
"Look, ahead is the Wyoming border. Chief Red Cloud of the sioux people has already spoken. If the railway crosses their buffalo hunting grounds, it's war. That's when our trouble starts, you understand?"
"Furthermore, two of our survey teams went missing last week. Yesterday, my men found their bodies by the river."
Bill paused, his voice low. After all, those men were his.
"I can't even imagine—you didn't see the scene—their scalps were peeled off, and even the theodolite used for surveying was smashed to pieces."
Rambo's hand stopped upon hearing this. He looked up, his eyes flashing with a cold light.
"What did Durant say?"
"What else could he say? That greedy fellow only cares about whether his 'Credit Mobilier' can get the construction payments," Bill snorted coldly.
"He told Chief Engineer General Dodge to seek help from the army. But General Sherman said they don't have enough troops to station soldiers at every construction section in that wilderness."
Bill turned to look at Rambo, his tone serious.
"So Durant came to us. He's willing to pay a high price to hire the Vanguard Security team to act as the Vanguard."
"How much?"
"Five dollars per man per day, plus all ammunition costs reimbursed by the Railway Company. There's also compensation if anyone is killed."
"Sounds decent." Rambo attached the machine gun's drum magazine. "Seems like this is just business."
"No, no, no, pal, it's not just business."
Bill waved his hand and took out a secret telegram sent by Felix from New York from a drawer.
"The Boss's telegram instructions say there might be good stuff buried under the indian reservations. Gold, or black oil. And... it says we need a 'controlled chaos'."
Rambo was a bit confused by this.
"Why? If we take action, we could completely wipe them out. I'm confident in that, sir."
"Of course... of course... I know you fine boys can do it, but the Boss's instructions must be followed. Because only when the indians cause more trouble will Congress allocate more military funding. The War Department will then buy more steel and guns from Lex Steel and Militech, and more canned goods from Argyle Food& Co."
"At the same time, this will force Union Pacific to take on more debt. To save his own life, Durant will sign any mortgage agreement. When the Union Pacific Company can no longer hold on, this railway will be ours."
Bill's voice carried a hint of amusement as he looked at Rambo with leisure.
"So what should we do?" Rambo asked.
"It's simple... To appease Chief Red Cloud, the Department of the Interior just shipped a batch of 'relief supplies.' Blankets, beef. Right now, this shipment is in the Metropolitan Trading Company warehouse."
Pointing to the warehouse outside, Bill told Rambo what needed to be done in plain terms.
"The Boss instructed us to withhold half the beef and replace it with moldy meat or diseased beef we culled from the Chicago slaughterhouses."
"As for the blankets..."
Bill's eyes turned cold; these were the survival rules he had learned in the slums.
"I got a batch of old blankets from a contagious disease hospital in St. Louis. They were used by smallpox patients."
Rambo was stunned, looking at Bill with disbelief.
"That's too dirty, Mr. Bill. Dirtier than direct killing. And are you sure this won't spiral out of control?"
"This is a different kind of war, Rambo," Bill said expressionlessly.
"The expansion of civilization has never been clean. If we sent thousands of cavalry to fight, how many of our men would die? But if it's an invisible enemy..."
"Send the supplies. Chief Red Cloud will be furious. He'll feel insulted, and then he'll attack the railway."
"When that happens, you lead your Gatling gun squad to the front lines."
"Remember, make the fighting look tragic. Make sure the accompanying reporters get photos. We want the front pages of the Eastern newspapers to be filled with news of 'savages massacring road workers'."
"As for preventing it from spiraling out of control, that's already been considered. Don't worry."
Rambo was silent for a moment, then finally nodded.
"Alright then, I'll follow the Boss's instructions and arrange it immediately."
He stood up and walked to the door, looking at the rolling black mountains in the distance.
That was the home of the sioux people, and the last wilderness on this continent.
"By the way, Mr. Bill," Rambo suddenly turned back, "when this is over, I'd like to take some leave to go back to New York and see."
"Hmm? Why? Homesick?"
"No, sir." Rambo touched the gun at his waist.
"I just feel the wind here is too cold. I want to see the Boss's gilded cradle. To see what the blood on our hands has truly bought."
"Pal, you will see. Everything we do will have its reward. The Boss won't let any of us down; I firmly believe that."
Bill sat back down by the stove and threw the secret telegram into the fire.
The flames consumed the paper, just as the fires of war were about to consume this prairie.
Shortly after the gavel fell in Washington, the news quickly reached the board of directors' office of the New York Central Railroad.
The Old Captain, Cornelius Vanderbilt, sat at the end of a long table, clutching a quote that had just been delivered from customs.
The figures on it made the battle-hardened captain feel extremely uncomfortable.
"Damn it! A forty-five percent tariff. What on earth are those congressmen doing? Don't they know that with such high tariffs, those of us buying imported steel will suffer heavy losses?"
Vanderbilt tossed the quote onto the table; the paper slid across the waxed mahogany surface and stopped in front of his son, William Henry.
"Shit... if you add in shipping and insurance, the cost of those twenty thousand tons of British steel rails will make me lose more than I did on the Erie Railroad stock buyback."
William Henry picked up the sheet and looked at it, his expression also quite displeased.
"Father, the key issue is that the goods from Sheffield have already been loaded onto the ship. If we return them now, the other party certainly won't refund the deposit, and that money will be gone. Moreover... our roadbed expansion project cannot stop. If it does, the media will report negative news, and the stock will definitely fall."
"I know... of course I know we can't return them. Do I need you to teach me that?"
Vanderbilt stood up irritably and walked to the window, wanting a moment of peace.
Manhattan outside was as busy as ever, but he felt as though the city was drifting away from him.
He thought back to when he made money by monopolizing shipping lines, and later moved ashore to control railroads. But now, someone else controlled the materials for building those railroads, which was very distressing for him.
"Forget it, let's go find Argyle."
The old man thought for a while in a daze before turning around, his voice carrying a hint of exhaustion.
"Didn't he say old customers could get a ten percent discount?"
"But Father, that's bowing your head to an opponent..."
"Idiot! This is business!" Vanderbilt roared.
"As long as Argyle' rails can be laid on the ground to let the trains run, do I care who made them? Go buy his steel. Also, tell Felix that if the quality of his rails isn't up to par, I'll personally go return them; he can't just keep the good stuff for his own two railway companies."
...Newark Bay, New Jersey.
Within the Lex Steel Company factory complex, massive flywheels roared as they spun, driven by steam engines, and the ground trembled slightly with the rhythm of the forging presses.
This was the heartbeat of industry.
The first batch of high-quality coke sent by Miller from Pennsylvania had already been fed into the blast furnace.
Chief Engineer Friedrich Haas, wearing goggles, stood on the observation platform of the No. 2 Converter. He held a pocket watch, staring at the color of the flames erupting from the furnace mouth.
From dark red to orange, and then to a dazzling incandescent white.
"Good... now!" Haas shouted. "Pour!"
Hearing the command, the workers began to operate in an orderly fashion.
The massive converter tilted slowly, and the golden-red molten steel poured down like a waterfall into the ladle below. A wave of heat rushed toward them, causing even William Coleman, standing over ten meters away, to instinctively take a step back.
Ten minutes later, the molten steel was cast into molds and, after being repeatedly pressed by the rolling mill, transformed into straight, slender I-shaped rails that shimmered with a cold light.
Felix stood on the high walkway, quietly overlooking the scene.
Beside him stood Andrew Carnegie, the rising star of the American bridge-building world.
"Spectacular, isn't it?" Felix pointed downward. "Andrew, look... this is the skeleton of the future."
Carnegie looked at the rails, the light in his eyes even more intense than the molten steel. He was an expert himself and could see the quality of the steel at a glance.
"The Bessemer process," Carnegie murmured to himself. "You solved the dephosphorization problem? And the coke... the temperature control is perfect."
"That's a secret." Felix smiled, not giving a precise answer.
"However, for a partner, I can reveal a little. We added something to the furnace lining."
"I'm placing an order."
Carnegie turned his head and looked at Felix.
"As you know, Mr. Argyle, I want to build a bridge across the Mississippi River. It's the St. Louis Bridge I mentioned before. I've already finished the preliminary blueprints; now I need the best steel. The kind of steel that can withstand thousands of tons of trains and hurricanes."
"Of course, no problem at all; after all, you are a partner of the company," Felix agreed readily. "But I have one condition."
"What condition? Please, speak."
"I want a twenty percent stake in your bridge company," Felix said.
"Don't worry, this is purely an investment and won't be used to fight for control. Additionally, all your future steel must be sourced from Lex Steel."
Carnegie frowned upon hearing this.
He was doing the math. If he agreed, his company would become part of Felix's downstream industrial chain, tied to Lex's war chariot.
But if he didn't agree, he couldn't buy steel this good anywhere else in America. If he imported it, that forty-five percent tariff would bankrupt him.
This was an open conspiracy; although he had placed orders with Lex before, he had also sourced some materials from other manufacturers.
"You've blocked all the roads, Mr. Argyle," Carnegie said with a bitter smile. "Do I even have a choice?"
He had previously said he would defeat Felix in the steel industry, but he hadn't expected that in just one short year, the other man would essentially form a monopoly in the high-end American steel industry.
But he would never give up on the steel industry, never!
"You do." Felix patted the railing.
"You can choose to make money with me. Or watch others use my steel to squeeze you out of the market."
Carnegie remained silent for a moment before extending his hand.
"Deal, but I only want the best steel."
"You will be satisfied." Felix shook his hand.
After seeing Carnegie off, Coleman ran up with a report.
"Boss, Vanderbilt's people are here. They want twenty thousand tons of rails, and they're paying in cash."
"Give it to them." Felix looked down at the busy workshop.
"Give them ten percent off the market price. Also, tell the Shipping Department to prioritize deliveries to Carnegie's bridge company. Put Vanderbilt's order at the end of the queue."
"Why, Boss? The Captain is paying cash."
Felix turned and walked toward the exit, speaking nonchalantly.
"Because the Captain is just buying rails for his road, while Carnegie is helping us establish a standard. When the bridge over the Mississippi River uses Lex Steel, every engineer in America will only recognize our brand from then on."
"Of course, the fact that Vanderbilt is a competitor is also very important. After all, who told his son not to show me any respect before?"
Thirty miles west of Fort Laramie, where Nebraska meets Wyoming, a makeshift trading post squatted on the prairie. Once a rendezvous for French fur traders, it was now overrun by the freight wagons of the Metropolitan Trading Company.
A dozen Conestogas formed a defensive circle, a single fire flickering at their center.
Bill stood beside one wagon, watching the dust cloud rise on the horizon. Dozens of mounted figures emerged from the haze.
They were Sioux delegates, led by a minor headman of Chief Red Cloud's band called Broken Spear.
Oddly, none wore feather bonnets; they were wrapped instead in heavy buffalo-robes.
Rambo leaned against a wagon wheel, his Spencer rifle slung with studied carelessness, finger never leaving the trigger-guard.
Around him, twenty Vanguard Security men held the high ground, their Gatling hidden under tarpaulins.
Here they come," Bill spat, clearing tobacco flecks from his lip.
Look lively, boys—no slips. If these jokers smell a setup, the fun's over."
The horsemen halted outside the corral of wagons.
Broken Spear swung down. Black paint streaked his face; his eyes were wary, hostile. Though the Sioux were ragged and hungry, the pride of plains lords still straightened his spine.
A sweating white man in a rumpled frock-coat waddled forward, reeking of whiskey—Mickel, the Interior Department's Indian agent.
"Hey… my Sioux friends!"
Mickel spread his arms, mouthing broken Sioux words.
"Great Father in Washington sends gifts—for peace."
Broken Spear ignored the fat man, striding to Bill. He knew the hard-eyed stranger held the reins.
Where is the beef you promised? And the blankets for winter?" he demanded in halting English.
Right here, partner." Bill slapped the wagon behind him.
Five thousand pounds of beef, two hundred blankets, plus flour and sugar. We deal square—prime goods, cost us plenty."
Broken Spear signaled; two warriors stepped up, slashing the tarp with knives.
Canvas ripped; a sour stench wafted out, rank enough to wrinkle noses.
Bill never flinched.
Sorry for the road time," he drawled.
Weather's hell, so some cuts aged a mite. Still prime—just needs a good boil. Tastes the same."
Broken Spear sniffed, skewering a black-edged chunk. Hunger forgave such blemishes.
He knew something was off, yet meat spoiled fast on the trail.
Since the iron road had stampeded the buffalo, elders had already starved; the band could wait no longer.
Fine. The blankets?" he asked, frown deepening.
Next wagon." Bill pointed.
Bales of thick wool, drab and mottled with odd stains—clearly not new.
Salvaged from St. Louis' finest hospital," Bill lied without blinking.
God knows they're precious—warmed dying patients all winter. Thick as sin."
A little dingy, sure, but warm."
In truth, they were smallpox-ward discards; chill slowed the virus, but a cozy teepee could wake the devil.
Broken Spear fingered the cloth—heavy enough.
Clean meant little to his people; warmth was all.
How long till your iron snake finishes?" he asked suddenly.
Red Cloud says it eats the grass and scatters the herds."
Almost done," Bill said airily.
Stay quiet and it'll pass. Trains will haul you more goods later."
Broken Spear grunted, disbelieving, but need outweighed pride.
We take," he ordered.
The Sioux loaded their ponies: death-laden blankets atop, reeking beef slung in sacks.
Rambo watched, silent.
He honored Sioux courage, yet he was Vanguard now—Argyle' man, his family on the payroll.
This is just—" a deputy muttered.
Shut your damn mouth," Rambo cut him off.
Watch them ride out. No speeches."
The trade finished swiftly.
At the last Broken Spear stared at Bill, then at Rambo.
Tell the road-builders," he said, pointing east.
Stay south of the Powder—our line. Cross it, we kill."
He mounted and led his grim caravan into the empty prairie.
Agent Mickel mopped sweat, sighing relief.
God be praised, it's gone. I can report to Washington. Many thanks, Mr. Bill."
Bill lit a cigarette, eyes on the vanished column.
Anytime. Interior's a good friend; good riddance."
Rambo," he called.
Set the boys to digging in—Gatlings on the ridge. Keep the survey crews covered."
Why?" Mickel blinked.
We just gave gifts. Should buy peace, no?"
Bill watched the fool depart, a cruel smile twisting his lips.
Who knows? But once they crawl into those blankets, sleep a few nights… they'll be back."
Next time they won't bring hides—just arrows and hatchets."
Didn't your bosses tell you, pal? We want them to hit first. Only way the rail goes through quiet."
As mid-April arrived.
It should have been the season of renewal, yet the Wyoming prairie reeked faintly of corpses.
In the Sioux camps, wails rose day and night.
Smallpox swept through the tribe like wildfire—first the children, then the elders, finally some warriors in their prime, their bodies blistered and burning with fever.
Chief Red Cloud gazed at the corpses of his dead kinsmen; sorrow in his eyes turned into towering rage.
The whites had done this; they had done such things before.
After all, the people had been fine until they took the white men's goods; who else could it be?
"This is poison!"
Red Cloud yanked free his tomahawk and hacked a stake in two.
"The whites dare give us poison; we will avenge ourselves and kill them."
...18 April, dawn.
A Union Pacific forward survey team was mapping the banks of the Powder River.
Twenty surveyors were there, along with fifty Vanguard Security men led by Rambo.
Rambo sat on a boulder, sweeping the ridge lines with his binoculars.
The last few days had been too quiet—quiet enough to knot a man's stomach. By rights, it should be soon.
"Captain, the ground up ahead is shaking," a scout reported. "Lots of it, messy—like a big herd of mustangs."
Rambo figured it was probably the Sioux and sprang up, racking his rifle.
"Not mustangs—warhorses."
"Everyone to position; gunners, set!"
Before the words faded.
Black dots burst into view along the empty ridge.
Sioux warriors—five hundred of them. Instead of their usual yells they charged in silence, every face streaked with the black paint of death.
They had come for vengeance.
"This is what you wanted," Rambo told the machine-gunner beside him as the horsemen surged like a tide.
"Hold steady! Let them come close!"
Two hundred metres… one hundred.
Arrows rained down; several surveyors who hadn't reached cover screamed and fell.
"Fire!" Rambo roared.
Dadadadadada…
Two Vanguard 1865 Gatlings thundered in unison.
Brass cases poured from the ejection ports, clinking to the ground.
Concentrated streams of fire carved two lines of death across the prairie.
The front rank of warriors toppled like wheat; horses shrieked, blood dyeing the withered grass red.
Yet fear was drowned by fury; those behind rode over their comrades' corpses, even trying to pick off the gunners with arrows.
"Damn it—they're crazy!" the gunner yelled. "Barrel's red, it'll jam!"
"Swap barrels—second squad, take over!"
Rambo raised his vanguard rifle, dropping horsemen who tried to outflank them with precision.
The fight raged a full two hours.
It was one-sided slaughter and a contest of wills.
In the end the Sioux withdrew, leaving more than two hundred dead.
Rambo spat blood-flecked saliva at the sight of the corpses and his own dozen wounded men.
"Photos," he ordered the team photographer.
The man, a kid from New York, was cowering beneath a wagon, shaking.
"Out!" Rambo hauled him up.
"Shoot the bodies—shoot the arrows sticking out of my surveyors."
"Make our wounded look as bad as possible."
"The Boss wants to see."
...Three days later, New York.
News-boys waved fresh copies of The New York Times and The Tribune through the streets.
"Extra! Extra! Massacre in the West!"
"Savages attack rail survey team—innocent workers skinned alive!"
"Heroic security force fights blood-drenched battle to defend civilisation's frontier!"
A huge black-and-white photo filled the front page: dead surveyors bristling with arrows beside smashed instruments—graphic, raw.
In the office of Argyle & Co. Foods.
Felix held the paper, no smile on his lips.
Across from him sat Thomas Durant, vice-president of Union Pacific Railroad.
Durant's hands trembled as he stared at the page, face bloodless.
"We're finished—Red Cloud has really gone to war. We can't build; the crews will bolt."
He mopped sweat. "Mr Argyle, we have to stop work."
"Stop?" Felix set the paper down.
"If we stop now, Union Pacific Railroad Company stock turns to trash and Credit Mobilier's books get audited."
"So what do we do? Without troops we can't lay track."
"That's what I wanted to talk about." Felix drew a file from his drawer.
"The Department of the Interior and the War Department have seen those photos; the public's furious. I'll have Minister Clark lobby Congress—new military appropriations will pass soon."
"General Sherman will get the men he wants, and you—"
Felix slid the papers across.
"—need more security. Militech can send five hundred extra men west with the latest breech-loaders and Gatlings."
"But Union Pacific Railroad Company can't afford that right now."
"So sign this."
It was a new mortgage agreement: Union Pacific Railroad Company permanently transfers all future mineral rights along its Wyoming line to Sonne Mining Company in return for "free" Vanguard Security services.
Durant's cheek twitched; the contract was blood-letting.
There might be coal or gold beneath Wyoming, but he had no choice.
If he refused, work stopped, he went bankrupt and to prison.
"All right, I sign for the company."
Pen in hand, he shook like a leaf.
Felix pocketed the signed papers.
"Good. Don't worry, Thomas—this war will end."
"Once we've herded the indians into reservations or wiped them out, this railroad will be a river of gold."
After seeing Durant out, Felix stepped to the window.
Frost stood behind him.
"Boss, Rambo wires that the smallpox is worse than expected—some bands may not survive the winter."
"Then their luck was simply worse."
Felix closed off the last flicker of pity, face impassive.
"When the train of civilisation rolls on, someone must be crushed beneath its wheels."
"Tell Rambo to stand by. When the army arrives, cooperate with General Sherman—drive them east of the Powder River, turn it into a no-man's-land. If any tribe chooses to leave, Bill can offer them some supplies."