The screams of men and horses, the roar of gunfire, and the shouts of the dying mingled together, composing a brutal sonata of death on the sun-drenched mountain path.
After emptying two more rifles, all thirty-eight charging cavalrymen and their three German Shepherds had been cut down, most of them with shots to the head.
The closest of the dogs had died a hundred meters from his position. Not a single rider had made it within two hundred meters.
The narrow road had become their tomb. The bodies of the vanguard had blocked the path, and the speed of the charge had made it impossible for the others to stop in time. The four riders who had managed to rein in their horses and turn to flee had been Henry's first priority.
The firefight had lasted about forty seconds. During that time, he had endured the combined fire of over twenty riders. Even with the chaos in their ranks, their shots had been good enough to shatter four of his white pearl husks. If he hadn't used the granite block for cover, he might have lost twenty.
When two paths cross, the bold man wins. With such a powerful advantage on his side, Henry had decided to meet their charge with blood and iron, to trade fire with them head-on.
He could have hidden in the woods and played cat and mouse. With his reflexes and marksmanship, his own losses would have been far smaller. But the enemy could have retreated at any time.
He had lured them out for one reason: to inflict such devastating, shocking casualties that their nerve would be shattered, their will to fight broken. He knew he might only get one chance like this. Dwyer Manor was a self-sufficient fortress; he couldn't afford a long siege.
Henry stored the granite block and walked down the path, putting another bullet in any man who hadn't been shot in the head.
The road was a river of splattered blood and brains. The thick, coppery stench hung heavy in the air. Against the setting sun, Henry's lone silhouette looked like a visitor from Hell. A few of the horses had broken their legs in the fall; he put them out of their misery as well.
Inside the manor, the commander, Sam, and the other guards had listened as the sounds of the charge turned into a symphony of slaughter. When they heard the familiar, rhythmic report of that one rifle, their hearts had sunk into their stomachs.
"Close the gate!" Sam had ordered. He sent two more men to each of the watchtowers. A desperate sliver of hope remained. Thirty-eight cavalrymen! The sheer numbers should have been enough to overwhelm him!
Beside him, Sean McKinley stood rigid, his face a pale, greenish hue, his lips pressed into a thin line.
A moment later, the answer came. Crack! Crack! Crack! Henry's rifle spoke again from the bend in the road. One of the men in the watchtower, panicked, had exposed himself and was instantly killed.
Sean felt as if his heart had turned to ash. Thirty-eight riders. Added to the six gate and tower guards from before, the three sentries down the road, and the man who had just fallen… forty-eight men. Gone.
His formidable force of seventy-four guards was now down to twenty-six. And of the 182 cavalrymen Brendan had sent, only one remained: Commander Sam.
Sam's face was ashen. The grief and disbelief were crushing. At the same time, he was thankful the man outside seemed wary of their two Gatling guns. Otherwise, he might have charged straight in.
The coward! Sam thought, a bitter shame rising in his throat. He sent one man to taunt us, to dance around like a clown, and then he ambushed us! If Commander Oliver had been in charge, he never would have made such a foolish mistake.
"Machine gunners, stay sharp!" Sam roared. "He might be leading a larger force!"
Henry figured they wouldn't dare come out again. He turned his attention to the bodies.
He spent nearly an hour carefully looting every corpse, and stored the carcasses of the three German Shepherds.
It was nearly 7 PM. He chose an unmarked horse from the scattered mounts and rode toward the McKinley silver smelting plant. Most of the other horses bore the McKinley brand; he didn't want to be caught with them and end up a wanted man.
It was a shame the other two dogs hadn't charged out with the riders. They would have made his infiltration of the manor that much easier.
It was over half an hour, as the sky began to darken, before Sam finally forced two servants to go down the path and scout the situation. By the time they had hauled the last of the bodies and horses back to the manor, night had fallen.
A cold certainty settled in Sean's heart. Even though the attacker had worn a mask, it was undoubtedly Henry. No one else had that kind of firepower. The boy was a wolf cub, a monster. He'd finished his duel with Billy the Kid at noon and had come for them by evening. And he had the same greedy, cruel style—every weapon, every coin, stripped from the dead.
For the Irish, the only peace is in the fight. Sean did not lack the courage to continue his war with Henry or with William, but a deep, primal fear had taken root in his heart. No mining tycoon was a saint, but this was different. He had to be more careful, to reduce his losses, and if he couldn't find a way to win, he would have to find a way to negotiate.
The twelve guards he'd sent to escort the children would be back tomorrow. That would bring his forces back up to thirty-nine reliable men. If they were cautious, they should be able to hold the manor.
At least Ronald's wife and child were safe. The family line would continue. He knew he couldn't expect any more help from Brendan for now, but he had to report the situation. The telegraph office was closed. He would send a man in the morning.
The McKinley silver mine was an open-pit operation. The raw ore was transported to a processing plant at the foot of the mountain, where it was crushed and separated. From there, it went to the smelting plant to be refined into silver ingots of 93-97% purity.
The entire process required massive amounts of water, so the plant was situated at the bottom of a canyon, right next to the Colorado River. It was an eight-mile ride from Dwyer Manor.
Henry saw no one on the mountain road. It was 7:46 PM by the time he approached the plant. He had twenty minutes until nightfall.
He could see the smoke from a distance, billowing from the tall stacks of the smelting plant. The majestic scenery was scarred by the ugly plume.
He turned off the main road and onto a private path. After a few hundred meters, the road turned and the canyon opened up before him. A final, three-hundred-meter downward slope led to the banks of the river, where the sprawling processing plant stood.
The entire complex was surrounded by a three-meter-high wire fence. It wasn't simple wire mesh. It was a dense web of sharpened, high-tensile wire, bristling with cruel-looking barbs.