Michael Spradlin: Blood Riders

“As I said, Captain, you are correct. We’ve had another incident, similar in details to what happened to your command in Wyoming. In this case it was a mining camp in Colorado. One man escaped and reported an assault on the camp by what he called ‘flesh eaters.’ When the creatures attacked, the man jumped across the stream where the sluice box was set up. For some reason they didn’t pursue him there. They didn’t want to or for some reason weren’t able to cross the stream. The rest of his camp was wiped out. Each man was killed and the bodies were then thrown in the back of a wagon and carted away. Does this sound at all familiar, Captain?” Pinkerton looked up over the eyeglasses perched on the end of his nose.

Hollister nodded. He began to sweat, feeling the heat of the rising sun on that Wyoming ridge, watching in horror as the bodies of his troopers were casually tossed into a wagon like sacks of grain.

“The flesh eaters, as the man called them, rode away just before sunrise. This lone survivor finally made it into town and led a posse to the scene. As I’m sure you can guess, there was nothing to see. No bodies, some blood on the ground, a few signs of a struggle, but nothing else to support the man’s story.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Pinkerton, but why are you here? What makes somebody with your connections come all the way to Fort Leavenworth to tell me this?” Jonas asked.

“Because, Captain Hollister, things have changed. Your experience in Wyoming is being looked at in a new light.”

“Is that so?” Hollister asked quietly.

“Yes. In fact, Captain Hollister, we have a proposal for you. Something we think you are uniquely qualified for,” Pinkerton said.

“What might that be?” Jonas asked.

“To find these things. Whatever they are. And kill them.”

Hollister was back in the colonel’s office two hours later, bathed, clean shaven, and in a fresh uniform. He tried not to notice the fact that the blue blouse showed captain’s bars at the neck, but his fingers went to them and touched them unconsciously. Pinkerton was still there, in Whitman’s chair, and he held out a sheaf of papers.

“Just a few formalities and we’ll be on our way, Captain. I’ll need you to sign a few documents, after that we’ll board a train for Denver. My private car is waiting at the station in town,” Pinkerton said.

He dipped a pen in the inkwell on the colonel’s desk and held it out for Jonas.

Jonas stood, hands clasped behind his back. Not moving and making no effort to take the pen. Pinkerton, head down as he shuffled through the papers on his desk, finally looked up.

“Is there a problem, Captain?” he asked.

Jonas nodded. “I expect there is.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

Jonas stuck out his arm and rubbed the clean, fresh cloth of his new uniform.

“Certainly, Mr. Pinkerton. I’d be happy to. There’s too much going on here that I don’t understand. First question: you say what happened to my men in Wyoming has happened again in Colorado. I don’t see how that affects me. No one believed me then, so why all of a sudden is my story accepted as the truth?”

Pinkerton was about to answer, then thought better of it. He sat back, staring at Hollister, waiting for him to finish.

“Second question: after why me, why you? You are not unknown to me. You are famous and connected. So why are you here?”

“When this is over, I’d like you to consider working for me as a detective. You have a keen mind, Captain.” Pinkerton smiled.

“Not according to the United States Army, Mr. Pinkerton.”

Pinkerton waved a dismissive hand. “Yes. Well. Admittedly, mistakes were made. We know it now. We’d like make it up to you, but we’d also like your help.”

“And if I refuse?” Jonas asked.

Pinkerton frowned. “I’m afraid you’ll remain here and finish out your sentence.”

“Ah,” Jonas replied. “So that’s it. You’re not really exonerating me. You’re asking me to take on a duty that will most likely get me and perhaps others killed. And if I refuse, I stay here digging Whitman’s dirt until my sentence is up.”

“I wouldn’t put it in quite those terms, but yes.” He picked up the paper he’d wanted Hollister to sign. “It’s all laid out here in writing. If you accept reinstatement you’ll be assigned to a special detail of the U.S. Secret Service and report directly to me. You’ll be paid, outfitted, and to assure the army’s cooperation whenever you need it, you’ll be restored to your rank. You’ll have authority from General Sherman to use whatever facilities or troops you deem necessary to expose and eradicate this threat.”

“Paid, you say. How much?” Hollister asked.

“Two hundred fifty dollars a month, plus board and horses. You’ll also be given access to a private, specially outfitted train.”

The amount of money stunned Jonas. It was nearly quadruple what his army pay had been before he was sent up the river. However, if he found these “flesh eaters,” he’d most likely get himself killed and he’d never spend the money anyway.

Jonas paced. Pinkerton waited patiently.

“Still doesn’t answer my second question, sir. Why now? Why does anyone believe me?” Hollister asked.

Pinkerton rested his elbows on the desk. He suddenly looked tired.

“The man who survived this most recent attack is from a family of some consequence. He has made noise. This noise has reached the president.”

“Who is this family?”

“Their name is Declan,” Pinkerton reluctantly answered.

Jonas recognized the name. James Declan had discovered the second-largest silver lode in the country. He was wealthy and powerful. Jonas understood things a little more clearly.

“I still don’t understand. If there were no bodies, no evidence

…” Jonas’s words trailed off.

“You’re wondering why attention is being paid to this attack when yours was ignored?” Pinkerton suggested.

Hollister nodded.

“Senator Declan has enormous financial holdings in Colorado. Mining, land, ranching. He started with a small herd of cattle, became a big rancher, then the silver strike happened and he was rich,” Pinkerton said.

“And since he is now a U.S. senator whose position is compromised, the president dispatched me to Colorado to investigate personally. Based on my observation of the scene, I concluded the story the survivor is telling is true. The senator is claiming it’s nothing more than an Indian attack. Utes who are tired of the miners taking more and more land. He is doing this for a variety of reasons; to force the president to send more troops to Colorado, to keep the citizens calm, and Indian attacks are a much easier sell than telling the world what really happened. And then, of course, there are the creatures. People there are in danger, Captain Hollister. Grave danger. The senator doesn’t care about them, but if people were to learn the truth and flee the state? What would happen to his finances? It would be a disaster.”

“But what if the senator is right?” Hollister said. “Utes know how to fight. I’ve fought a few of them in my day.”

“True, but this was not an Indian attack,” Pinkerton said.

“How do you know?”

“Had it been Utes, there would still be bodies left. Scalped and mutilated, but left there to instill terror and inform the local populace that they are back on the ‘warpath.’ And there was almost no blood, Captain. With that many men, shot or scalped by Indians, there would be blood everywhere. I found hardly any.”

“Maybe they were rounded up and killed elsewhere,” Hollister suggested, knowing that wasn’t the case. He could fill the fear rising in him again: the same feeling he had felt when he spotted the camp through his spyglass. Something wasn’t right, and trying to poke holes in the detective’s theories was the only way he could quell the rising terror.