Shooting from the treetop was a bad idea. He couldn't maintain his balance, and his accuracy would suffer. The recoil from a few shots would likely send him tumbling to the ground. At this range, his rifle was at the edge of its effectiveness; his hit rate would be abysmal.
Even if he did manage to empty a full magazine, the enemy would react instantly. A cavalry charge would bring them to the base of his tree in seconds, and he would be a sitting duck. It wasn't worth the risk. The guards in the watchtowers, if they survived his initial volley, would pinpoint his position and rake the trees with machine-gun fire.
Henry pulled out his Patek Philippe. It was 4:25 PM. He still had plenty of time. He settled back into his perch and continued his observation.
Over the next hour, only three riders came up the mountain path. Messengers or men returning from an errand. No one left the manor.
He saw Sean McKinley—a wiry man in his fifties with a surprisingly thick head of red hair. He came out of the main house, admired his flower garden for a few minutes, and then went back inside.
Henry noted that there were no children or women visible on the estate. Another dozen guards emerged from the main house. All told, he counted about seventy men.
He climbed down from the tree and headed back the way he came. When he was about three hundred meters from the three sentries he had passed earlier, their dog began to bark again.
He continued to approach, and the barking grew more ferocious. The three guards leveled their rifles, on high alert.
"Who's there?" one of them shouted.
Silence. Only the frantic barking of the German Shepherd.
Suddenly, the dog charged into the woods.
CRACK!
The dog yelped and tumbled to the ground.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
The three guards collapsed, bullets through their brows and throats. Against a hidden sniper, they never stood a chance.
Henry walked past the dead dog and stored its body.
He stepped out of the woods and looted the three men, taking their money pouches, three Colt 1878 revolvers, three Winchester rifles, and three daggers.
Then, he untied one of their horses, swung into the saddle, and galloped toward the manor.
The guards at the estate knew something was wrong. The men at the gate and in the watchtowers fixed their eyes on the only road up the mountain. Thirty more guards rushed to the stables and began to saddle their horses.
A minute later, Henry reached the final, 400-meter straightaway that led to the manor gate. The road here was a wide, twenty-meter plaza, flanked by a rock face on the left and a steep cliff on the right.
He reined in his horse, dismounted, and sent it running with a slap on the rump. He pulled a mask over his face.
Time to go loud, he thought, checking his pearl husks. He had enough to withstand over fifty machine gun rounds. It should be enough.
A standard Gatling gun had a rate of fire of 200 rounds per minute. A military-grade model could theoretically reach 1,000. But a hand-cranked model topped out at around 300-400 rounds per minute. That was about seven rounds per second. He could survive for seven seconds. But machine gun fire was inaccurate; it relied on volume. He figured he could last a dozen seconds under the fire of two of them. If they were the civilian models, he could probably last half a minute.
He swapped to one of the "One of One Thousand" Winchesters, stepped out from behind the corner, and began firing at the men in the watchtowers.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.
Four shots, three seconds. Four sentries fell.
The stabbing pain in his brow flared. He immediately ducked back behind the corner, out of the line of sight of the gate and the machine guns.
The four guards at the gate returned fire, but at 400 meters, their shots went wide.
Dak-dak-dak-dak-dak!
The roar of a Gatling gun echoed down the road. A hail of bullets chewed up the ground where he had just been standing, kicking up a cloud of dust. The bullets from a Gatling gun of this era had a muzzle velocity of 400 meters per second. It took them a full second to travel that distance. For an ordinary man, a second was nothing. But for Henry, with his enhanced agility and five-times-faster reaction speed, it was an eternity. He had felt the danger and moved a dozen feet before the bullets even arrived.
He judged from the rate of fire that they were civilian models—200 rounds per minute.
After a minute, the machine gun fire ceased.
"Only one enemy!" a voice called from the watchtower. "He's on foot!"
Henry waited for two minutes, then stepped out again. Two quick shots, and the two guards at the gate fell. He ducked back behind the corner.
Dak-dak-dak-dak-dak!
The Gatling gun roared again, uselessly.
This time, he hadn't fired at the men in the tower because they were well-hidden behind the stone walls.
The cavalry commander inside the manor watched as six of his men were cut down. He was seething with rage. "Mount up!" he roared. "Charge! It's only one man! Kill him!"
The moment the machine gun fell silent, Henry stepped out, fired two more shots, and then ducked back again. The two remaining gate guards had taken cover behind stone statues. His shots missed.
This time, Henry stored his rifle and began to run, back down the road. It had been seven minutes since he'd attacked the first three guards. If they were going to charge, it would be now.
In less than a minute, he had reached another bend in the road, three hundred meters below. He turned, retrieved a chest-high granite block from his storage space, and took cover behind it, catching his breath and reloading the rifle he had just used.
Soon, the thunder of hooves echoed from up the road.
Two riders appeared around the corner, saw him, and immediately raised their rifles.
Henry stood his ground, letting their bullets whistle past him.
He waited for two seconds, letting the riders close another fifty meters, then he opened fire.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
The first two riders were shot through the head. Then their horses. Then the next two riders and their horses. Then the next seven riders.
The four dead horses created a gruesome barricade, blocking the narrow road. The riders behind them piled up, a chaotic scene of screaming men and horses. The men in the rear began to fire wildly at Henry.
He remained unmoved, a steady, unyielding rock, his rifle roaring like the herald of Death itself.