Slater watched the train leave the warehouse. It confirmed his suspicions that his adversaries had learned something from the mysterious woman who had ridden to their rescue that day. She must have given them a clue or a direction to go in and now they were on the trail. Depending on where they went, it would be much harder to contain the situation now. Harder, but not impossible.
As the train departed, Slater confirmed the warehouse was still guarded by Pinkertons: two men at each entrance and two others regularly patrolling the perimeter. Whatever was in there, Pinkerton didn’t want anyone finding out about it. The train shifted onto a siding and slowly rolled westward. Slater had anticipated they’d be going soon and had stationed his men along the most likely routes, with instructions to report back and to follow the train as far and as long as they were able.
He pulled the collar up on his duster. Even though it was early summer it was unseasonably chilly and rain was coming. Leaving the train yard, he rode through the streets, and was at the senator’s mansion in a few minutes. He found Declan inside, sitting in front of the fireplace in his study. The bottle of brandy on the table next to his chair was almost empty. The man was good and drunk. He’d been like this for the last two weeks. Ever since he’d realized his son had been telling the truth. It had unsettled him and he hadn’t gotten a handle on how he could fix it. Slater found it mildly disgusting.
“They’re gone,” Slater said.
“Where?” Declan asked.
“I don’t know yet. I’ve got my men tracking the train. We’ll hear soon enough.”
“What are we going to do, Slater?” Declan asked, sucking down another big swallow of brandy.
“Whatever we need to,” Slater said.
“I don’t think that’s going to work this time,” Declan muttered.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning even if Hollister finds these… things and succeeds in killing them, us killing him isn’t going to be overlooked. I got a telegraph from Washington today. Nobody knows anything about him.”
“So? Isn’t that a good thing? No one will miss him when he’s gone.”
“You don’t get it,” Declan grunted, rising and leaning against the mantel. “The only things I could get my hands on were his original army records and the fact that his release from Leavenworth was signed by President Hayes himself. That fancy train, the Pinkertons, a mysterious warehouse big enough to hold that gussied-up train-all of it takes massive amounts of money. You don’t hide something like that, especially in Washington. If anyone knows anything, they’re not saying a word. Which means they either don’t know or…” He let his words trail off.
“Or?” Slater prodded.
“Or it goes all the way to the top, to the president himself. And that means people are watching Hollister’s back. Which means our ‘usual methods’ won’t work.”
Slater shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry, Senator.”
“You sound awful damn confident,” Declan said.
“I seen what happened in Torson City with my own eyes. That many men, gone without a trace. If Hollister gets mixed up with… in it
… he ain’t likely to survive it. And even if he does, it would be easy to make it look like he didn’t,” Slater said.
The senator was quiet a moment, turning Slater’s words over in his mind. He smiled. “By God, you are an evil sumbitch. I hadn’t even considered that,” Declan said.
Slater smiled, taking the glass from the senator’s hand and draining the rest of the brandy. “It’s what you pay me for, ain’t it?”