"And the McKinley prospecting team?" William asked, getting to the matter that concerned him most.
"They've vanished from town," Raphael replied. "And we've found no sign of them in Denver."
A cold smile touched William's lips. So that's it. It had to be about a new mineral discovery. Nothing else would explain their sudden, aggressive moves.
"For the time being, I want you to focus on any outlaws or strangers entering town. If a situation becomes urgent, you have my permission to report directly to Henry. He's seen you; he knows you work for me."
"Understood, Mayor. I'll take my leave, then," Raphael said, respectfully backing out of the room.
At noon, Henry went to the Phoenix Saloon alone.
This time, he didn't stop in the main hall. He went straight to the second floor, to a private room reserved for the Sheriff.
He ordered double what he'd had the day before: four venison steaks, four beef steaks, three pounds of bread, and five bowls of oatmeal porridge.
The waitress, Barbara, didn't bat an eye. She simply assumed he was expecting company. Henry's plan was to transfer the hot food into his storage space when he had the chance. There was no sense in eating dry rations when he had this ability. He had even prepared a set of plates, bowls, and cutlery for this very purpose.
Henry had just finished his meal when Drummond knocked on the door.
"The detailed intelligence on the McKinley family will take another day or two," the saloon owner said as he entered.
Henry nodded in understanding. In this age, information traveled at the speed of a horse or a telegraph wire. A comprehensive report on a family like the McKinleys would be far too long and expensive to send by wire. Telegrams were priced by the word, at nearly twenty cents each.
"A lot of new faces will be coming to town," Henry said. "If you see anything suspicious, I want to know about it immediately."
"You'll be the first to know," Drummond promised.
Henry nodded, stood up, and left. The bill, as always, would be put on his tab and deducted from his share of the profits.
Drummond escorted him downstairs. Just as they stepped out of the saloon, a carriage pulled up in front of them. Luke jumped down from the driver's seat.
"Sheriff, a gentleman has come all the way from New York to see you."
Following him, a tall, thin man in a swallow-tailed suit and a silk top hat stepped gracefully from the carriage. He leaned on an elegant walking stick, a leather briefcase tucked under his other arm. His mustache was neatly trimmed, and he wore thin, black leather gloves. He was the very picture of a Victorian gentleman.
"Good day," the man said with a refined air. "I am Louis de Toulouse-Lautrec, from France. I am here on behalf of a Ms. Cath Cavendish to handle matters concerning her inheritance. Might you be Mr. Henry Bruce?"
"I am," Henry replied. "You've come a long way. Please, let's speak in my private room at the saloon." He turned to Drummond. "Would you please show Mr. Louis to my room? I need to give Luke some instructions. There's no need to close the door."
"Of course," Drummond said. "Mr. Louis, this way, please."
Louis gave Henry a slight nod and followed Drummond inside.
"Luke, take the driver to the Raging Bull restaurant for lunch, then have him wait at the office for me," Henry said, handing Luke a 50-cent coin.
Luke happily took the coin, climbed back onto the carriage, and gave the driver directions.
Henry went back up to the second-floor room. Drummond and Louis were chatting pleasantly. When Drummond saw him enter, he immediately stood, excused himself, and left, closing the door behind him.
The door to the private room was specially sealed; no sound could escape.
Louis also stood, a polite smile on his face. But the smile froze when Henry's left hand blurred, his revolver appearing in it, leveled directly at the man's chest.
"What is the meaning of this?" Louis asked, his voice strained, the smile still plastered on his face. "What has happened?"
"Hands in the air," Henry said, his voice cold as ice. "Now."
Louis was seething with frustration. He had no idea what gave him away, but he was a professional. He'd been in tighter spots than this. The key was not to resist. Comply first, then find an opportunity to strike.
He raised his hands.
"Turn around."
Louis did as he was told, a silent vow forming in his mind: When I get my chance, I will make this boy's death slow and painful.
He had just turned his back when a searing pain erupted in his chest. He looked down and saw the impossible: the sharpened, triangular tip of a blade was protruding from his sternum.
His heart had been pierced. His strength vanished in an instant. He tried to speak, to ask a question—to at least die knowing why—but a chilling sensation bloomed at the back of his head, followed by a flash of fire.
I can't accept this! was the last thought that flashed through Louis's mind before his soul plunged into an eternal abyss.
From the moment he had laid eyes on the man, Henry's danger sense had been screaming, a dull, persistent ache in his brow. There was no premonition of an immediate attack, but the man's malice was as bright and blinding as a hundred-watt lightbulb. His sharp eyes had also noticed the tell-tale bulge of a gun beneath the man's fine suit.
Scammers, then and now, all used the same playbook: start with a shocking, unbelievable story to knock you off balance. Once you were stunned or intimidated, you were theirs to control.
But Henry had been tempered by the information age. More importantly, if he couldn't trust his own supernatural gift, what could he trust?
An absurdly fancy name, a story about an inheritance… who would believe such nonsense?
So Henry had decided to send him to meet his maker.
Unsure of what tricks the assassin might have up his sleeve, Henry had opted for a preemptive strike, maintaining his distance.
The moment Louis turned his back, Henry had summoned the 1.2-meter-long rapier to his right hand. In a single, forward step, he lunged, the blade piercing the man's heart.
At the same time, he'd stored his pistol and summoned a throwing knife to his left hand, whipping it into the back of the assassin's skull.
Since the man had come to him with deception, it was only fitting that he die without understanding why.
Henry tried to store the body, rapier and all. It vanished without a hitch, confirming the man was completely dead.
He spread a blanket on the floor, brought the body back out, and, after pulling on a pair of gloves, began to search it.
Just as he'd suspected, he found a Colt Model 1877 "Lightning" revolver in an inner coat pocket, and a 12-centimeter push dagger—a vicious weapon known as a "one-thrust kill," designed for silent, lethal backstabs. The Colt 1877 was a smaller, more easily concealed weapon than the 1878, a favorite of assassins.
There was no longer any doubt. What kind of gentleman, a supposed executor of a noble estate, would carry such tools of the trade?
Henry opened the man's briefcase. It was a prop, filled with black-and-white photos of jewelry and a forged letter of authorization, all designed to support his elaborate lie.