think some Archaics survived out there?” Hollister asked.
“Don’t know,” said Chee. “That’s not his Archaic bark.”
Even though it hurt, Hollister had to laugh. “He has different barks?”
“Yes, sir,” Chee said. “That is his ‘bad man’ bark.”
They finally cleared the entrance and found why Dog was barking. It wasn’t Archaics. Standing just outside the mine was Slater, holding the Fire Shooter Hollister had abandoned before he entered the mine.
“Howdy,” Slater said. “Good to see you survived.”
Chapter Seventy-eight
Slater was standing in front of six mounted horsemen, deployed in a semicircle behind him. Some of them held torches, painting the area in a flickering orange-blue light. Slater was pointing the barrel of the Fire Shooter at the ground but in their general direction. All six of his men had their guns pointed at the three of them.
“Mr. Slater,” Hollister said, trying not to grimace as he spoke. “It’s awfully nice of the senator to send you here as our backup. But as you can see we managed to put these things down and everything’s fine, so your service is no longer required in this campaign.”
Slater lifted the barrel of the Fire Shooter, studying it, running his free hand over the barrel if he were inspecting a horse he wanted to buy. He smiled an ugly smile and looked at Hollister.
“I think you know he didn’t send me here for no backup,” Slater said. “You don’t look so good, by the way.”
Hollister could only imagine what he did look like, his shirt and face covered in blood and his body battered from being tossed around by Malachi inside a room made entirely of rock.
“Never better, actually,” Hollister said. “We got a lot of paperwork needs doing after all the shooting and exploding we did here. And Pinkerton and his men are on the way. So we’re going to get to it, if you’ll excuse us.”
Slater snorted. “I don’t think you got any backup coming. And even if what you’re saying is true, it’ll take Pinkerton a while to get here. And you’ll be dead and we’ll be long gone before he arrives.”
“Chee, why the hell hasn’t the dynamite gone off yet?” Hollister muttered quietly.
“What’s that? Didn’t quite catch it,” Slater said.
Chee had his Henry held at port arms and would never be able to get a shot off before one of Slater’s gun thugs shot him down.
“I was just telling Sergeant Chee here to shoot you first, once the shooting starts,” Hollister lied, trying to buy time until he could think of a way to stall Slater and his men. He tried to stand up straighter, but his wound sent another wave of pain through him and he bent forward again. The dynamite must have been duds, because there was no explosion.
“You know Shaniah here, she’s impervious to fire, plus she’s fast. Faster than Chee.”
“Well, Major Hollister, I never went to West Point, so I don’t reckon I know what ‘imperialist’ means…” Slater started to say.
“Impervious, not imperialist, you moron,” Hollister interrupted. “Means fire can’t kill her.” Where is the damn dynamite? he thought. “Chee,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth. “You still got ammo?”
“Yes, sir,” Chee replied. “Six shots.”
“Crap on a Cracker,” Hollister said. “I’m out.”
“As soon as you two finish your little conversation there, please let me know. I’d like to get to the part where I kill the three of you,” Slater said.
“Kill these men,” Shaniah said. “Burn me with your contraption there, empty all of your guns into me. I will not die. And when I heal, which will only take a matter of days, I will find you, Mr. Slater. I have your scent. I will hunt you down and I will kill you. Without any hesitation.”
Hollister was growing impatient. Standoffs like this were not his forte. In the war, on the plains, he attacked or retreated to find a better tactical position. Waiting for the fighting to start was annoying as hell. It also led to stupid mistakes, he reminded himself. He wanted his explosion, he wanted his stomach to stop hurting like a bitch, and he wouldn’t mind putting a bullet in Slater’s head just to top off his day. He was out of ideas though.
Slater stared at Shaniah, his reptilian eyes slitted nearly closed, as he considered her words.
“You know, I’ve done a lot of killing over the years,” Slater said, looking at the barrel of the Fire Shooter again. “Shot people, strangled a few, stabbed a fellow once in Wichita…”
“Was that you?” Hollister said. “Because I’ve heard Wichita doesn’t usually get a lot of stabbings, but this one year…”
“Shut your mouth!” Slater shouted. “Like I was saying, hung folks, pushed a rustler off a cliff, pretty much killed every way you can. ’Cept I ain’t ever burned anybody to death before.”
He lowered the Fire Shooter and pointed it at Chee. “While we was watching you fight these…” He looked around at the piles of dead bodies. “… whatever the hell these things are, I got real interested in your little flamethrowers here.”
“Hey. Flamethrower, that’s a pretty good name. We were calling them Fire Shooters, but I didn’t much care for that. I like flamethrower a lot better, don’t you, Chee?” Hollister said.
“Yes, sir,” Chee said, never taking his eyes off Slater. Next to him he could sense Shaniah growing tense, waiting to spring. Chee held Dog in check some way Hollister wasn’t sure of. Probably by using his mind, for all Hollister knew.
“But wait,” Hollister said. “Did you say you were watching us fight these things? And you didn’t help us? Well, excuse me, but that’s just rude.” The dynamite was a goddamned dud; that was the only explanation. Hollister was angry he wouldn’t live long enough to tell Monkey Pete they had survived fighting a billion Archaics but were thwarted by faulty dynamite. If the three of them survived, Monkey Pete was going to get an earful. Hollister gave a sideways glance at Chee and rolled his eyes toward the mine, but Chee only shrugged.
“Shut up, Hollister. You ain’t funny. I ain’t the one sat in prison all them years like an idiot. I get to kill people and get paid for it and ain’t never got caught once. And now I’m gonna burn ya’ll, starting with the breed.” He looked at Chee “What do you think, Breed?”
“I think you better not miss,” Chee said.
Slater laughed, he turned the knob on the handle of the flamethrower and pulled the trigger. At that instant the dynamite inside the mine went off with a mighty blast. What Slater didn’t know was that the weapon Hollister had left behind had a barrel jammed with dirt and mud. The pressure mounted inside it, exploding in a burst of flames and engulfing Slater. Screaming in agony, he dropped to his knees as Monkey Pete’s fuel mixture burned the flesh from his bones.
The explosions threw the horses into a frenzy, their riders trying desperately to regain control of their mounts. The dynamite’s pressure wave knocked Shaniah and Hollister to their knees. Yet somehow Chee remained standing, and he fired the Henry shot after shot, killing five men. The rifle was empty. The last man tried to keep his horse under control and draw his pistol at the same time, until he was knocked backward out of the saddle by Chee’s bowie knife landing in the middle of his chest.
Then it was quiet. Dust filled the air. The torches had fallen to the ground and there was a little light left. Dog walked over to Slater’s remains and sniffed at him. Then he lifted his leg and peed.
“Good boy,” said Hollister. Even Chee laughed.
Chapter Seventy-nine
By the time they arrived back in Denver, Hollister was almost completely healed. Even the scar where the blade had entered his stomach was slowly disappearing. Chee developed an uneasy truce with Shaniah when he saw Hollister’s improvement. She remained on Dog’s bad list though.
Monkey Pete was happy to hear his contraptions had worked, but less so when he found out his equipment
