Michael Spradlin: Blood Riders

“That letter doesn’t prove anything,” the senator said. “I was simply rewarding an employee for years of loyal service.”

Hollister stood up and walked toward the senator, who instinctively backed up.

Hollister kept moving forward, the senator backpedaling until he was nearly standing in the fireplace.

“I think whether it proves anything or not isn’t up to you or me. I think I’ll send a copy of it to the governor and the president. Just for the hell of it, see what they think about it.”

“You-you-wouldn’t do that…” Declan stammered.

Hollister folded the letter back up and put it back in his pocket. “Your reaction tells me everything I need to know. Here’s what’s going to happen.”

Hollister stepped over to the table holding the decanters and poured himself a large glass of bourbon.

“First, you are going to get your son some help. Get him out of that bedroom, find an asylum or some doctors somewhere who will help him. Then you’re going to resign from the senate and you’re never going to run for any kind of office again. Ever. And third, you’re going to give back all the land you stole from the farmers and ranchers. Every acre. Give it back to the state, land grants, I don’t care. It goes back to the original owners if they still want it.”

“You’re insane,” Declan said.

“I am. If you’d seen what I saw, you’d be insane too,” Hollister said.

“I’m not doing any of these things.” Declan snorted.

“You will. You have two days.” Hollister put down the glass and walked back to where Declan stood. He drew his Colt, thumbing back the hammer. He put the barrel under Declan’s chin. The senator closed his eyes, tears escaping and running down his cheeks.

“You will do it, in two days. Or I”ll come back and kill you. Your choice,” Hollister said. “And don’t try sending anyone after me. Slater was as good as there was. Just not good enough.”

He left the mansion, the senator’s eyes still closed and tears cascading down his cheeks, long after Hollister was gone.

Shaniah went to the stock car and led Demeter down the ramp. He was saddled and ready to go. It was best this way. She was an Archaic who needed to return to her people. Hollister was a human being who needed to get on with his life and though she should not have these feelings for him, she did. It would be a clean break.

She mounted Demeter and was startled to find Chee standing on the other side of her horse, the ever-present Dog at his side.

“You’re leaving,” he said.

“Yes. It’s best this way,” she said.

He studied her a moment. “I agree,” he said.

“You don’t like me,” Shaniah said.

“No. Not really,” Chee answered.

“Why?”

“You think you love the major and he loves you. He does. But it cannot be,” he said.

“And so you hate me because he fell in love with me?” she asked.

“No. I hate you because you are an Archaic. And we are enemies, like the lion and the lamb,” he said.

“We leave humans alone,” she said. “We have for centuries.”

“For now. But it will not always be that way,” he said.

“Then hate me. If as you say, that is how it must be,” she said.

He nodded.

“Will you tell him I said good-bye?” she asked.

“I will not,” Chee answered.

“Why not?”

“It will only make it harder for him,” he said.

“I do not understand you, witch-man,” she said.

He shrugged.

She reined Demeter around and started on her journey home. Before she reached the warehouse door, she heard Chee call out to her and she stopped, wheeling Demeter around to face him.

“Did you tell him?” Chee said.

“Tell him what?” Shaniah asked, her voice cracking. He couldn’t know. It was far too soon. How could he tell? She was more convinced than ever he was a witch.

“To leave without telling him you are carrying his child is cowardly. He has a right to know,” Chee said.

“He can’t know… I’m not… it isn’t possible,” she stammered.

“But nevertheless it has happened. And you must tell him. It is only right,” Chee said.

She spurred Demeter close to Chee.

“You will not tell him. If you do, so help me, I will kill you, witch-man,” she said.

“First, I will not tell him because it is not my place. That responsibility belongs to you. Second, you may try to kill me at your convenience,” Chee said.

She looked at him for a long time. Then she turned Demeter toward the warehouse exit. He called out to her.

“Shaniah,” he said. “I will be watching.”

She rode away, his warning echoing in the empty warehouse.

Two weeks later

“Is that where he spends most of his time?” Pinkerton asked.

“Yes, or at the Golden Star,” Chee said.

“God damn, I feel sorry for the man,” Pinkerton said.

Chee did not answer.

“Let’s go,” Pinkerton said.

“Before we do…” Chee pulled the Order of Saint Ignatius medallion from his pocket and flipped it in the air. Pinkerton caught it and held it out in his palm so Chee could plainly see it.

“Well done, Sergeant,” Pinkerton said, giving Chee his own coin. Chee repeated Pinkerton’s action, and satisfied, they left.

They walked through the streets of Denver until they reached the saloon. As he usually was, Hollister sat at the corner table farthest from the bar. A single glass and a bottle of whiskey sat in front of him, and his head was down as if he were trying to stare a hole through the table.

“Major Hollister,” Pinkerton said as he approached.

Hollister recognized the voice and glanced up. He looked briefly at Pinkerton and said nothing and returned to staring at his whiskey glass.

“I have something for you,” Pinkerton said, pulling a folded paper from his suit coat pocket.

He unfolded it and handed it to Hollister. Jonas looked at it, then tossed it onto the table. Across the top of the paper in large type it read, PRESIDENTIAL PARDON.

“Just as we agreed,” Pinkerton said.

“Thanks,” Hollister muttered.

“I have something else,” Pinkerton said.

“What? Because if you don’t mind, I really like to drink alone.” Hollister looked at Pinkerton. The detective could tell he wasn’t much of a drinker. His eyes weren’t bloodshot and the bottle was mostly full. He came here and sat and sipped his whiskey because that’s what a man with a broken heart does.

Pinkerton removed a leather wallet from his suit pocket.

Hollister was a little drunk. “You keep pulling shit out of your pockets, Pinkerton. You haven’t got a monkey in there, have you?”

Pinkerton handed him the wallet. Hollister opened it. On one side was a badge. On the other was a small picture of Hollister from his army days, printed on a card that said, DEPUTY INSPECTOR, U.S. DEPT. OF THE INTERIOR, OFFICE OF PARANORMAL AFFAIRS.

“What’s this?” Hollister said.

“It’s a new job, now that you’ve completed your original assignment. Sergeant Chee here has already said yes. You’ll travel around the west, and investigate… things. Like you just did with the Archaics. Incidents that are strange, curious, and don’t add up. You’ll keep the train and Monkey Pete. You’ll get a raise in pay. You’ll save lives. In fact we’ve already got a case for you down near the Mexican border. Might be Apaches. Might be something else. I’d like you and Chee to find out.”

Hollister snapped the wallet shut and handed it back to Pinkerton. “Can I let you know? Think on it for a few days?”

Pinkerton stroked his beard with his gnarled fingers. “All right, fine,” he said. “But don’t take too long, Jonas. People are dying.”