The night was as dark as ink, shrouding the dense forests of the Allegheny Mountains.
The trees here were tall and thick, blocking out the moonlight; only the occasional sound of wind through the treetops whispered like ghosts.
In a clearing deep within the forest, torchlight flickered unsteadily. Hundreds of laborers, bare-chested and chanting low rhythmic work songs, were lifting heavy cast-iron pipes into a newly dug trench.
Jack McDowell stood on a dirt mound, a bottle of strong liquor in hand, his eyes bloodshot as he stared fixedly at the construction progress.
"Faster, faster!" he roared, his voice hoarse.
"We must lay the pipe across this river valley before dawn. Once we cross the river, it's flat ground ahead."
This was already the eighth day of construction.
To speed up the progress, he had offered double wages, making these workers toil day and night. Every riveted joint and every inch of buried pipeline carried the weight of his entire life's fortune and those of the independent refiners.
"Boss, this is pushing too hard," the foreman said, running over while wiping away sweat.
"The brothers are so tired they're falling apart. And it's too dark in these woods; if something happens..."
"There are no 'ifs'!"
McDowell took a swig of liquor; the pungent liquid slightly relaxed his nerves, which were taut with anxiety.
"Tell everyone that once the pipeline is through, I'll give each man a hundred-dollar bonus. Cash!"
Hearing the word "cash," a flicker of light reignited in the workers' weary eyes.
The sound of pickaxes striking the ground seemed to grow more frequent.
What McDowell didn't know was that in the bushes less than five hundred meters from the construction site, dozens of cold eyes were watching everything.
Miller lay prone on the damp, cold grass, holding a monocular. Beside him lay Jack Kehoe.
This former leader of Irish thugs now wore a specially made black combat uniform from Vanguard Security, his face painted with black greasepaint, looking like a reaper blending into the night.
"These guys are working quite hard."
Kehoe lowered his voice, a hint of mockery in his tone.
"The quality of those pipes looks good; they're made in Philadelphia."
"Pity they're being buried in the wrong place."
Miller put down the telescope and glanced at the luminous watch on his wrist (though such watches were rare in that era, as a high-ranking member of the Argyle organization, he owned a Swiss-made custom watch with a radium dial).
Two o'clock in the morning.
The time when people are most exhausted and their vigilance is at its lowest.
"Kehoe, get your men ready," Miller ordered in a low voice.
"Don't kill too many people; our goal is the equipment and their confidence. Blow up those pipes and fill in the trenches. Let McDowell know that this forest does not welcome his pipeline."
"Understood."
Kehoe gave a sinister grin and unfastened a bundle of specialized explosive packs from his waist. They were a new product from the Lafflin-Smith Powder Company, powerful and stable.
"That's McDowell's entire livelihood."
Miller pointed at the figure standing on the dirt mound.
"Leave him alive. The Boss said that a living loser is more educational than a dead man."
"Move out."
With a low command, dozens of dark shadows darted out of the bushes like wraiths, creeping toward the construction site.
On the site, a worker responsible for guard duty was dozing against a tree. Suddenly, a large hand covered his mouth from behind, followed by a heavy blow to the back of his head.
He slumped to the ground without even a groan.
Kehoe led his men to fan out quickly. They skillfully placed explosive packs at the joints of the already laid pipes and among the piles of pipe materials stacked nearby.
Everything was done in silence, save for the faint hissing of burning fuses.
"Who's there?!"
Finally, McDowell noticed something was wrong. He saw several dark shadows moving in the trench that didn't look like his workers.
"Ignite!"
Kehoe no longer hid and let out a loud roar.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Violent explosions instantly tore through the silence of the night sky.
Flames shot into the air, and the blast wave, mixed with soil and iron shards, sprayed everywhere. The newly laid pipes were twisted into pretzel shapes by the explosions, like dying black pythons being tossed into the air.
"Enemy attack! Enemy attack!"
The construction site fell into chaos.
Workers dropped their tools in terror and fled in all directions. They were here to make money, not to lose their lives.
It wasn't worth dying for this pittance.
"Don't run! Everyone come back and get your guns!"
McDowell pulled out a revolver from his waist and fired into the air like a madman, trying to stabilize the situation.
But a second later, dense gunfire erupted from all directions.
Rat-tat-tat...
Though they didn't use machine guns, the fire net formed by the vanguard rifles in the hands of the Vanguard members was nothing short of a massacre for these workers armed only with shovels and pickaxes.
Bullets hit the dirt and the iron pipes, making chilling clanging sounds.
Although the Vanguard team intentionally aimed high, mainly to disperse them, stray bullets still struck down a few unlucky souls.
"This... what is going on?"
McDowell stared blankly at the hellish scene before him. The pipe materials he had spent tens of thousands of dollars on were now turning into scrap metal in the raging fire.
The group of workers who had been full of drive just moments ago were now being driven into the forest like a flock of sheep by a few sheepdogs.
This wasn't just sabotage; this was an organized military strike.
"McDowell."
A voice came from within the firelight.
Miller rode a tall horse he'd gotten from somewhere, slowly emerging from the smoke. Behind him followed a row of men in black holding rifles.
"It's you..."
McDowell recognized this man who had recently been appearing at the Standard Oil offices.
"One of Argyle' men!"
He raised his gun, wanting to shoot.
Bang!
Before he could pull the trigger, Miller raised his hand and fired. The bullet accurately knocked the revolver out of McDowell's hand, taking off his pinky finger in the process.
"Ah...!"
McDowell screamed, clutching his bleeding hand as he collapsed onto the muddy ground.
Miller rode up to him, looking down from his horse at the man whose face was full of despair.
"Mr. McDowell, I heard you were building a pipeline?"
Miller's voice was exceptionally clear amidst the echoes of the explosions.
"Pity you didn't check the weather forecast. There's a thunderstorm tonight."
"You bandits, this is a crime. I'll sue you!" McDowell roared through gritted teeth.
"Federal law will punish you!"
"Law?"
Miller laughed, as if he had heard the funniest joke.
"In these woods of Pennsylvania, we are the law. And..."
Miller pointed to the eastern sky, where a hint of dawn was faintly appearing.
"As we speak, it should be 'dawn' over in Boston as well. I imagine the bank manager is probably looking for you urgently right now. Because your collateral—this pile of scrap metal—is now worthless."
"Guess what your allies, that so-called Petroleum Producers Union, will do when the news of your bankruptcy spreads?"
McDowell's body stiffened for a moment.
He knew the answer. Those people would avoid him like the plague, and some might even sell their oil wells to Standard Oil for a pittance just to save themselves.
"This is the price of defying the order."
Miller put away his gun and turned his horse around.
"Kehoe, use the rest of the explosives. I want this place turned into a giant pit; in the future, even rabbits won't dare dig a burrow here."
"Yes, Boss!"
As Miller left, even more violent explosions rang out once again.
McDowell sat slumped in the mud, watching the soaring flames before him.
The fire reflected in his pupils, burning away his pipeline and wealth, as well as his last shred of dignity as an independent businessman.
"I will never give up!"
Three days after the explosion, Harrisburg, the capital of Pennsylvania.
This city on the banks of the Susquehanna River is the political heart of the state. The magnificent State Capitol stands in the city center, its dome gleaming with majestic light in the sun.
Yet beneath its dignified exterior, it is also a coliseum where various interest groups wrestle for power.
In an exclusive club called the "Founders" near the State Capitol, Anna Clark sat on a velvet sofa, holding a cup of Darjeeling tea.
Today she wore a pale gold long dress paired with a pearl necklace, her entire being radiating a noble and inviolable aura.
Sitting opposite her was the chairman of the Pennsylvania State Senate Railroad Committee, Senator William Cameron.
"So, that forest fire was... an accident?"
Senator Cameron was a typical politician—slick, greedy, and adept at playing dumb.
He asked tentatively while cutting the steak on his plate.
"Of course it was an accident, Senator."
Anna set down her teacup, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather.
"It's likely those independent oil producers used low-quality explosives in their rush to meet deadlines. As you know, those speculators will do anything to save money."
"This isn't just a loss of property; it's a serious safety hazard."
Anna's tone shifted, her expression becoming serious.
"Imagine if that crude pipeline were actually built, with flammable crude oil flowing through it. It would pass through forests, through farmland, and even through... the railroad."
At the mention of the word "railroad," Cameron's movements paused for a moment.
Anna keenly captured this detail and continued:
"If a pipeline leaked or exploded under a railroad bed... it would have catastrophic consequences for the Pennsylvania Railroad, for the passengers on the trains, and even for the transportation safety of the entire state."
"You're right, Miss Clark."
Cameron put down his knife and fork, taking a napkin to wipe his mouth.
"Safety issues cannot be ignored. However... those oil producers have been making a lot of noise lately. They're crying out in the newspapers, calling it monopoly persecution. Several representatives from the west have already been swayed by them and are preparing to submit a 'Pipeline Free Passage Act'."
"Freedom?"
Anna gave a light laugh, one filled with disdain.
She took a thick envelope from her handbag and pushed it gently toward Cameron. The envelope was unsealed, revealing a glimpse of the green corner of a banknote inside.
"Freedom has boundaries, Senator. And the duty of the law is to define those boundaries."
"This is a small 'political contribution' from the Argyle Charitable Foundation for your re-election campaign next month. Additionally, one of our steel mills in Philadelphia is preparing for expansion. I heard your nephew runs a construction company? I think we could cooperate further."
Cameron's fingers tapped lightly on the envelope, feeling its reassuring thickness.
"So, Miss Clark, do you have any specific suggestions?"
Anna brought out a draft bill that had already been prepared.
The Pennsylvania Pipeline Safety and Railroad Right-of-Way Act
"There are only two core provisions: First, for public safety, construction standards for any oil pipeline must undergo strict approval by the State Bureau of Engineering. Of course, we will provide you with the standards; essentially only Standard Oil can meet them."
"Second, and most crucially."
Anna's finger traced across the document.
"Any pipeline needing to cross a railroad bed must obtain written permission from the railroad company. This is a matter of respect for private property rights."
This clause was a total checkmate.
Because all major railroads in Pennsylvania were now under Felix's control (or had signed alliance agreements).
This meant that as long as the railroad company didn't nod, no independent oil producer's pipeline could dream of crossing a single track.
They would be locked tightly in the oil-producing regions, forced to either sell their oil obediently to Standard Oil or accept exorbitant railroad freight rates.
"Brilliant," Cameron praised.
"It protects safety while upholding property rights. This is entirely in line with the spirit of the Constitution."
"So, tomorrow's vote?"
"Don't worry."
Cameron tucked the envelope into his coat, revealing a satisfied smile.
"In the Railroad Committee, and even in the entire Senate, no one will oppose this 'Safety Act'. As for those noisy representatives... I'll make them understand that railroad stock dividends are worth much more than the tears of a few oilmen."
...The next day, at the State Capitol.
The atmosphere at the debate was heated. Those representatives representing the interests of independent oil producers spoke passionately, denouncing it as the strangulation of free trade and blatant monopoly.
However, when Senator Cameron took the podium and spoke movingly of the horrors of the "Allegheny Forest Explosion" (a modified version, of course) and held high the banner of "for the people's safety," the tide turned.
"We cannot let our homes become powder kegs that could explode at any moment," Cameron declared, waving his arms.
"There must be regulation! There must be strict oversight!"
In the subsequent vote, despite some dissenting voices, the Pipeline Act passed by an overwhelming margin under Anna Clark's powerful financial offensive and political lobbying.
Bang!
As the Speaker's gavel fell heavily, the last hopes of Jack McDowell and the other independent oil producers were shattered.
They had not only lost the war of explosives in the forest but had also lost the war of law in this marble palace.
In the hallway, Anna watched the dejected oil representatives leave, her face expressionless.
She turned and walked toward the waiting Rockefeller.
"It's over, John," Anna said calmly.
"From today on, beneath the ground of Pennsylvania, only oil that Standard allows to flow shall flow."
Rockefeller bowed slightly, still holding his Bible.
"Thank you for your efforts, Miss Clark. This is God's will."
"No, this is Felix's will."
Anna corrected him, then put on her velvet gloves and walked toward the carriage waiting outside.
"Next, it's time to harvest those bankrupt oil wells. I imagine the prices should be very cheap now."
The wilderness of Warren County glowed a sickly ochre in the twilight. The setting sun fell on a stretch of the Erie Railroad known as the Sarajevo Spur.
The spur was unremarkable; the sleepers were half-rotted, the rails furred with rust, and trains rarely used it.
But to Jack McDowell, it was the line between life and death.
A section of pipe had been blown apart a few days earlier.
Still, he refused to quit, borrowed more money from relatives, and repaired the damage.
He was obsessed.
If the pipe could pass beneath the modest embankment ahead, it would bridge the final mile to the free port of Sarajevo.
'Pick it up, boys.'
McDowell stood on a makeshift platform, flask clenched in hand, voice raw.
Below him, dozens of Black laborers toiled.
'Boss, the tracks are right ahead.'
The foreman jogged up, panting, waving a crumpled blueprint toward the low rise a hundred yards away.
'Once we run the pipe under that culvert and hook up the last joint, we're done! It's dry—just a couple of dead rats inside.'
McDowell raised a trembling spyglass.
Through the lens the rails lay silent, not even a bird in sight. The stillness unsettled him, but he pushed the feeling aside.
'Sure there's no sign of Argyle's men?' he asked, palms slick on the brass.
'None, Boss. Not a shadow.'
The foreman mopped greasy sweat from his brow.
'They must figure that last blast scared us off.'
'Good.'
McDowell felt a flicker of relief.
'God's giving me this chance. We lay the pipe tonight! Once we're past those rails, even the devil himself couldn't stop us—let alone Miller.'
What McDowell didn't know was that five miles away, on a seldom-used siding, a special train sat motionless.
It carried no passenger coaches, not even the usual coal or lumber cars.
Only two flatbeds.
Sandbags were stacked on them, forming simple firing pits.
Behind the bags, several dozen Vanguard Security men in dark-blue uniforms lounged against the sandbags, some cleaning rifles, some talking in low voices, others gnawing hardtack.
Up front, a huge Gatling gun lay under an oil-cloth, its multi-barrel muzzle protruding like a beast crouched in shadow.
Inside the cab, Miller sat on an ammo crate, playing blackjack with Borg.
'Boss, they've started.'
A scout dashed from the telegraph office and handed Miller a slip.
Without looking, Miller flipped over the ace of spades.
'Twenty-one. I win.'
He scooped a few silver coins off the crate, stood, and rolled the kinks from his neck with a crackle of joints.
'Borg, rouse the boys. Mr. McDowell seems to think our warning wasn't loud enough—he wants to hear it again.'
'Kill anyone?'
Borg racked the bolt with a crisp metallic snap.
'No.'
Miller shook his head and settled his wide-brimmed hat low over half his face.
'Boss says we keep it legal. We're railway security; we protect company property. Anyone tries to cross or damage the embankment…'
Miller grinned, teeth white and cold.
'Then we defend ourselves. Steam her up.'
Night fell. McDowell's crew reached the rails.
Torchlight painted the tracks red, as though they'd just been pulled from a forge. Shovels flashed as men dug inside the culvert beneath the embankment.
'Deeper—don't touch the sleepers.'
'Easy! If the roadmaster hears, or if you collapse the bank, I'll bury you in it.'
A shrill whistle slashed the darkness, sharp as a blade through cloth.
Heavy pistons thudded; the ground trembled and the rails sang.
'A train?'
McDowell froze, flask slipping from his fingers.
'This spur's abandoned. Who in hell's running a train—now?'
Before he could react, the "ghost train" had burst through the dusk, reeking of coal smoke and hot iron, and clattered to a halt on the embankment directly above them.
It blocked the mouth of the culvert perfectly.
Huge wheels stopped mere feet over their heads, and a blast of steam swallowed the opening.
"What the hell?!"
Workers scrambled out of the culvert, spades and picks clattering to the ground.
"Stay calm!"
McDowell drew his pistol, fighting to steady the panic.
"Probably just passing through… maybe a two-car switch engine…"
He never finished. The tarp on the flatcar was ripped away.
Scores of black muzzles stared down at the work crew. Torchlight slid along the barrels like cold, glittering snakes.
"This is private property of the Pennsylvania Railroad Company."
Borg stood at the car's edge, a tin megaphone in his hand.
"Under the newly enacted Pennsylvania Railroad Act and Pipeline Safety Bill, any unauthorized excavation or crossing is sabotage of transport facilities. Drop your tools and put your hands on your heads. We will use all necessary force."
"Bullshit!"
McDowell roared, eyes bloodshot, booze and despair burning away his reason.
"It's a public culvert. This path's been here for decades— we've every right to use it."
"Public culvert?"
Miller stepped from behind Borg, holding a stamped deed to the light.
"Mr. McDowell, your law is out of date. Read yesterday afternoon's 'Embankment Maintenance Order.' To stop soil erosion, the state authorizes the Pennsylvania Railroad to 'seal and reinforce' every culvert on the line."
He flicked the paper over the side.
It fluttered down and landed at McDowell's boots.
"Meaning this hole is mine now. Crawl through it— unless you can turn yourself into an earthworm."
"You—"
McDowell shook with rage.
Damn it— no dynamite the last two days; they were waiting for the law to pass.
"Charge through!"
He fired a wild shot into the sky.
"They won't shoot— it's just scare tactics!"
"Get the pipe across— bury it and we win. A hundred dollars cash— each man!"
Goaded by money, the shovel-wielding crew started up the embankment.
"Self-defense."
Miller spat the words and chopped his hand down.
Drrrrrrrrrrrt—
The Vanguard Gatling in the cab woke.
Not the crisp crack of rifles but a steady, cloth-ripping roar, its muzzle-flash a bright lash in the night.
The stream of bullets whipped the ground a yard ahead of the men, flinging up a wall of dirt and dust.
The thud of slugs into earth, the smell of soil and cordite, snapped every nerve.
Industrial-age violence shattered their courage like glass.
The front rank dropped to their knees, trousers darkening; the rest fled, deaf to McDowell's threats.
"Come back, you cowards— that's money, that's our lives!"
He screamed, but his line broke again.
Men who had fought for a few dollars now ran for their lives.
Miller watched the lone figure below. No pursuit was needed— fear guarded the track better than guns.
"Want another try, McDowell?"
He pulled a cigar; a guard leaned in with a match, the flare lighting his cold face.
"This car carries sandbags. The next brings Federal troops. The National Guard's on the way. When you're jailed for 'armed assault on a railroad,' what will your creditors think?"
McDowell's pistol slipped from his fingers and thudded into the mud.
He had lost.
Not to bullets— to a scrap of paper, to the vast machine called Argyle.
Even if he laid the pipe, they could destroy it tomorrow.
Before this single line of steel, every dream of free competition was a joke.