Michael Spradlin - Blood Riders

Winchester flipped a small lever to the side of the trigger guard and the gun broke open exposing four barrels. Winchester held up four rather large shells, nearly the size of small mortar rounds and loaded them into the barrel snapping it shut.

“There’s advantages and disadvantages to the Ass-Kicker,” Winchester remarked. He took the empty crate and dragged it toward the far wall of the warehouse about sixty paces away.

“It’s actually steam powered. There’s an attachment here,” he said pointing to a large brass fitting on the side of the weapon. “Monkey Pete worked with me on this one. With this valve attachment it can be charged from the engine on the train or any sort of standard steam-powered engine fitting. It builds up pressure in the line here, and each time you fire, it sends a pressurized round through the barrel and with these. 90 caliber rounds… Well, you’ll see.”

Hollister held the gun, the stock resting on his upper arm, as he prepared to fire from the waist.

“That’s it,” Winchester said. “You’ll want to fire it like you would a shotgun. If you try to get too cute and fire from your shoulder, you’ll regret it. Go ahead, Major. I’d be honored if you’d take the first shot.”

“The first shot? You’re shittin’ me right? You mean to tell me you’ve never test fired this gun before?” Hollister replied, shocked.

“Of course we have.” Winchester answered waving his hands in front of him. “In the lab.”

“In your lab?” Jonas said.

“Yes, Major, I assure you the Winchester Repeating Arms Company has a first rate research facility. The gun has been tested.”

“Then why I am firing the ‘first shot?’ ” Hollister asked growing more and more uncomfortable.

“To be honest…” Winchester started, looking at Pinkerton for help, but the detective merely cocked his head and remained silent. “The first models had certain… problems. But when Mr. Pinkerton informed me of the severity of it, I put my best men on it around the clock. I’m certain the gun will work as promised, there just hasn’t been as much time as I would have liked to test all the…”

He didn’t get a chance to finish, because Hollister pointed the weapon at the crate and pulled the trigger. The noise alone was enormous and Hollister was unprepared for the recoil as it sent him staggering backward. He tried to keep his balance, but couldn’t and landed on the dirt floor on his butt. The gun hissed and clicked as the steam was released and the gears turned then stopped with another click as it readied itself for another shot.

“Oh my God,” muttered Chee his face caught between sheer astonishment and an almost childlike expression as if he were about to beg the major for the next shot and would be willing to trade his jackknife and all of his marbles for the chance to shoot the gun just once.

Pinkerton walked to where Hollister lay sprawled in the dirt and helped him to his feet. Winchester cackled with glee as the smoke cleared and the smell of cordite and gunpowder retreated.

“Not going to be a very useful weapon if it knocks you over every time you shoot it,” Hollister said in disgust, thrusting the machine back into the hands of the gunsmith.

“Oh. Really?” Winchester said. “Take a look at the crate, Major.”

Hollister had nearly forgotten about the target. He had been more concerned with the indignity of landing on his ass in the dust. Now he stared over toward where the crate stood.

It was gone. Only a few splinters remained. Some smaller pieces of wood still fluttered in the air, drifting slowly toward the ground like snowflakes. Hollister looked at Pinkerton and Chee in amazement.

“Huh.”

F rom across the rail yard, a man stood in the gloom of alley between two rail sheds, watching the doors of the large warehouse where the strange train had pulled in a few hours ago. He was six feet two inches tall, whippet thin, dressed in a black leather duster, a black Stetson pulled low on his head. He wore a gun belt holding a nickel-plated Colt, the handle forward for a cross draw. His face was scarred and marked from a battle with small pox he’d barely survived as a young boy. He tried to cover it with a beard but the hair grew thin on his face, not covering the scars completely but succeeding in making him look more dangerous and angry.

His name was Slater and he worked for Senator James Declan. He was many things: ranch foreman, aide-de-camp, and-the role he most preferred-problem solver. Mostly he solved the senator’s problems with his Colt, as the gun was second nature to him. But he was happy to use whatever means necessary to make sure the troubles were taken care of. He wasn’t above shooting a man with a rifle from three hundred yards, or caving in a skull with an axe handle. Up close or far away, it made no difference to him.

He’d killed his first man at seventeen in Dodge City. He’d drifted into town looking for work, unable to find any, and started pinching from cowpokes outside the saloons when they were all drunked up. One night a cowhand took exception and put up a fight. Slater put a knife in his ribs and watched as he bled out right there in the alley. He thought taking a life might make him feel something: powerful or godlike or remorseful or scared. To Slater it was no different than pulling on his boots, but what he felt was nothing. He took the coin pouch from the dead man and left him there in the dirt.

Slater worked his way west across the plains, partnering here and there with various thieves and rustlers and doing his share of honest labor when he could, even a session as a town deputy marshal in Nebraska, but never any legitimate work for long. Slater was not suited to rules.

Six years ago, he’d arrived at Senator Declan’s ranch outside of Denver. He’d heard there might be work. Declan’s was one of the largest cattle operations in the state and owned nearly forty thousand acres. Slater signed on and worked for a few months; then a dispute with the foreman rose up. The foreman came at him with a branding iron and Slater took it away from him and beat the man to death.

Slater thought that would be the end. Colorado had just become a state and Declan, now richer than ever with his silver strike, had thrown a lot of money toward the governor to get an appointment as a senator. And he’d succeeded. Declan saw an opportunity.

He was on his way to Washington; with his foreman dead and his ranch in turmoil, he’d need a firm hand to keep things under control. And that’s what he saw in Slater, someone who would keep things orderly. Instead of sending Slater off to prison for killing his foreman, Declan promoted him.

James and his wife, Martha, had one son, James Junior, who was a lost cause, in the senator’s opinion. Spoiled, weak, vain, and unwilling to take what was his, the boy caused nothing but trouble. Now James had caused a whole new kind of trouble. The boy had thought to try his hand at mining, and had been in the Senator’s Torson City camp when these… whoever or whatever they were had killed everyone but James, who somehow managed to wade into the stream and get away from these things. And no matter how hard Declan and Slater tried, the boy would not be silenced. He insisted he’d seen “monsters,” not men.

When James refused to change his story, Declan sent Slater to the camp to investigate. And what Slater saw there had unnerved him. Slater was a killer, without an ounce of remorse for any of the men he’d killed. It wasn’t so much what he’d seen as what he hadn’t seen. If that many men had died the buildings, the town should be painted in blood. There was very little blood. Almost none, in fact, but everywhere he looked there were signs of struggle. Not just struggle but desperate struggle, the evidence of men fighting for their lives and losing. But not much blood.