Senator Declan’s mansion sat on a rise overlooking the city. It was an impressive structure, four stories high, and having just met the man, Hollister had no doubt it was the finest in Denver. The senator did not appear to be the kind of man who would live in the second-best house.
“We should be on horseback,” Hollister said.
“Sir?” Chee answered.
“Walking up like this, it’s a little… diminishing. We should ride up on horses. Big horses. After all we’re U.S. Marshals now,” Hollister said, fingering the badge in his back pocket.
“Yes, sir,” Chee said.
“Chee, we’re on a mission here. We aren’t in uniform. You’re going to have to stop calling me ‘sir.’ You can call me Jonas. You can call me Hollister. I’ll even let you make up a good nickname if you’ve a mind to. But I think if you keep calling me ‘Major’ or ‘sir,’ it’s going to be a problem at some point.”
“Yes, sir, I understand, sir,” Chee said.
“Chee. You just did it again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I give up. ‘Sir’ away, Sergeant.”
They had reached the tall wrought-iron gate in front of the mansion. Terraced steps led up in flights of four to a good-sized veranda. The lawn was meticulous, the brick stairs perfectly aligned. The columns were painted bright white and the door, perhaps the largest Hollister had ever seen, was polished oak. Standing in front of it, he rapped the brilliantly polished brass knocker several times. They waited what felt like several minutes, the heat of the day slowly rising, and Hollister was about to knock again when the door creaked open.
An elderly black man answered. He was slightly stooped and his hair was peppered with gray, but his eyes were bright and wide-set in his face. He wore a white waistcoat with trim black trousers and white gloves.
“You must be Silas,” Hollister said.
“Yes suh, can I help you?” There was just the slightest hint of a Southern accent in his voice. Hollister knew it well from his time at the Point. His first year, there had still been a few classmates and instructors from the Southern states. But when the war broke out, they all left to fight for the Confederacy.
Hollister handed Silas the senator’s card.
“We’re here to see young Mr. Declan,” he said.
“Yes, suh. I was told to expect you,” Silas said. “Please follow me.”
They entered the house into a foyer bigger than most counties. It was as if the house grew in size once you were inside. The ceilings had to be at least thirty feet high.
There was a grand staircase on the right, and on the left was a parlor full of fine furnishings, with large couches and upholstered chairs, which Hollister thought looked incredibly uncomfortable. Silas was nearly halfway up the stairs by the time he’d taken it all in.
The stairs were carpeted and led to another high-ceilinged long hallway with a large stained-glass window at the end that gave some light. Silas walked slowly and finally reached the last room on the right. Hollister and Chee stopped gawking and hustled to catch up with the butler, who had already entered.
They found a large, gloomy room that smelled of stale air and unwashed things. Against the far wall was a large four-poster bed, draped in a flimsy canopy. There was a small lump of twisted bedclothes in the middle of it and Hollister thought the pile of sheets and blankets might include a man but he couldn’t be sure. A tray of uneaten eggs and coffee sat on a small table nearby.
“Master Declan, suh. I’m very sorry to disturb you, but you have visitors,” Silas said.
There was no movement. Hollister glanced at Chee, who stood with his feet spread, his thumbs hooked over his gun belt. He looked uncomfortable and Hollister wanted to ask him why.
“Young James… come on now… you need to get up and speak to these gentlemen,” Silas prodded.
A low murmur came from beneath the bedclothes but Hollister could not make it out.
Silas bent over next to the head of the bed and whispered to the pillows. Finally, a head emerged, covered in shoulder-length black hair that had not been washed in some time. A bearded face turned and one eye opened, squinting to focus on the two men. The familiar fetid aroma of drunken sweat reached Hollister. Declan was trying to deal with what he had seen by living inside a bottle.
“You must be James Junior,” Hollister said.
“Don’t call me that,” the young man groused. “Silas, what are they doing here?” Declan asked with an aching groan in his voice.
Silas had moved to a spot at the foot of the bed, his white-gloved hands crossed in front of him. His stance said he was not listening to the details, but stood ready to intercede on young Declan’s behalf, if need be. Hollister thought back to his meeting with the senator and wondered what such a man could have done to inspire this kind of loyalty. But then he had known officers like Custer, who did not deserve the dignity or the honor of the men who served them.
“Master Declan, your father sent them. They just want to talk is all, suh,” he said quietly.
“No,” James said, burrowing back under the covers.
“I saw them too,” Hollister said.
Declan’s head reappeared.
“What you saw in the mining camp… I saw them before… they were in Wyoming then. But I saw them. They killed my men,” Hollister said quietly.
Declan stared at Hollister a long time, his eyes wild. Finally, he twisted his way out of the sheets and sat on the side of the bed. He was dressed only in long johns. He was skinny and looked like he hadn’t eaten in months, and his chest and arms were streaked with sweat and grime.
“They were fast and strong,” Hollister said. “One of them was big, with long white hair… he…”
“Blood devils!” Declan shrieked, interrupting Hollister.
Hollister flinched. He remembered the young girl, starving and nearly dead from thirst, and how she had cried over and over, mumbling “blood devils… blood devils…”
“Yes, the blood devils,” Hollister said. “I saw them too.”
“They killed… everyone. Chauncey. Faulkner. Reynolds. Marin. Ole Mack. Red eye. Doyle. Nickerson. Frederick. D’Agostino. Miller. Spencer. Quarles.”
Hollister was confused for a moment. After a second he realized what Declan had said and he remembered his own men. “Sergeant Lemaire. Corporal Rogg. Private Whittaker. Private Trammel. Harker, Scully, Runyan, McCord, Franklin, Dexter, Jefferson, and Pope. Those were the men in my unit that those things killed. I can’t get them out of my mind.”
His words had no effect on the young man, who rolled back into the bed and buried himself in the bedclothes. “Mine,” he said quietly. “Mine.”
“What’s that?” Chee asked.
“Nothing, I don’t think. He’s just lost. He lost his men. He was in charge. He lost what was his. I know the feeling,” Hollister answered.
Young Declan was quiet again. Knowing there was nothing more for them there, Chee and Hollister left.