Reborn in 1878: America's Number One Bandit

Chapter 60 Where did the Irish gang go?

As the morning mist still lingered over San Francisco, a steamship quietly docked at a private pier in Sausalito, Marin County.

As the gangplank reached the shore, three hundred men filed out of the shadows of the cabin.

They wore matching dark, stiff canvas jackets, top hats, and gleaming Colt Peacemaker revolvers in their holsters.

These are the two most elite action teams of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency – “The Avengers” and “Iron Fist”.

The Pinkerton Detective Agency was extremely cautious; instead of using the ferry company's ship, they used their own company's private vessel.

Leading the way were two men with completely different auras.

One of them was named Caleb Thorne, nicknamed Bulldog.

The other one is called Silas Kane, nicknamed Ghost.

Three hundred elite soldiers thus set foot on the chaotic land of Northern California.

……

Lieutenant Buck received the telegram from the governor's mansion while sitting by a campfire.

"FUCK!"

He spat angrily and casually threw the crumpled telegram into the fire.

"Fully cooperate with the Pinkerton Detective Agency..."

"We're just support?"

He, Buck, a lieutenant in the Union Army, a man who earned his rank through meritorious service in the Indian Wars, is now under the command of a group of private detectives who work as watchdogs and henchmen for capitalists.

He despised these people to the core!

But a military order is a military order.

No matter how unwilling he was, he could only suppress his anger.

……

Thorne and Kane are exceptionally efficient.

A huge map of Marin County and Sonoma County is pinned to the wall.

Countless thin lines and thumbtacks began to crisscross on it.

They are ubiquitous.

The detectives worked in pairs and began a thorough search of the Irish community.

These people didn't kick down doors and beat people like Buck's militia.

They would politely knock on the door and then invite the male head of the household to their temporary headquarters for a coffee and a chat.

In that room, which had been converted into an interrogation room, there were no instruments of torture, only a kerosene lamp that shone directly on the invitee.

And sitting opposite him was Kane.

"Your name is Patrick Murphy?"

"Yes, sir."

"You work on a construction site for the Southern Pacific Railroad?"

"Yes, sir."

Do you know someone named Finnian? Or Johnny?

"No, I don't know you, sir."

"Don't be nervous, Mr. Murphy."

Kane's tone was calm, yet it inexplicably sent chills down his spine: "We just want to be friends with you. We know that you Irish people have a hard time."

"Therefore, we are willing to provide a small friendship fund, a full one hundred US dollars!"
"If you can provide any clues about that gang, this money is yours."

"And nobody will know."

Fear, coupled with the lure of money, is enough to exploit the vulnerabilities of every person being interrogated.

While these people don't create bloody wounds like Buck, what they create is a deeper festering of mutual suspicion and fear among neighbors.

The Irish people were filled with discontent. And the journalists who were hovering around Marin County were, for the first time, at a loss for words.

There was no conflict, no bloodshed, absolutely no explosive moments!
Time passes day by day.

An eerie calm descended upon Northern California.

Many people became anxious.

The patrons in the bar, the editors of the newspaper, and even William Irving in the governor's mansion were all asking the same question.

Where did those Irish thugs go?
Aren't they very arrogant? Didn't they even dare to cut off the head of the governor's special envoy and use it as a football?
How come these guys all hid like bastards as soon as Pinkerton's elite army arrived?

Some newspapers, having run out of material to write about, began to lavish praise on Pinkerton's strength and professionalism in order to boost sales.

The San Francisco Herald dedicated a full page to detailing the illustrious history of the Avengers and Iron Fist action teams.

How they relentlessly pursued the James brothers in Missouri, and how they uprooted Molly Maguire's infamous Irish secret society in the mining districts of Pennsylvania.

The newspaper's publication immediately sparked new discussions.

But soon, someone discovered the key point.

"Since Pinkerton's elite forces are so formidable, then may I ask, have the thirty-two Wolverine agents who were kidnapped been rescued?"

……

Inside the temporary headquarters.

Thorne carelessly stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray.

Kane, meanwhile, was slowly and methodically trimming his nails with a small knife.

They were getting a little anxious.

The captured agents' bodies can be found.

In Pinkerton's archives, this would be recorded as a death in the line of duty.

But one thing we absolutely cannot fail to find!
Not being able to find it means being out of control, it means incompetence!

It also means that the gang still holds the initiative!
They could cut off the heads of those twenty-eight agents at any time and send them to headquarters in Chicago, nailing the final nail to Pinkerton's honor!

But those Irish gangsters were like a bunch of rats, digging countless holes in the ground of Northern California, and then they just disappeared!

Just then, Buck burst in, reeking of alcohol.

"Still haven't found them? Two renowned detectives?"

Thorne raised his eyelids and glanced at him, but said nothing.

"I've had enough!"

Buck slammed his fist on the map: "We can't keep wandering around this wretched town like this! They're definitely hiding in the mountains!"

"We should organize a team right now and go into the mountains! Turn that mountainous area upside down, inch by inch! I refuse to believe they can burrow underground!"

"Lieutenant Buck."

Kane spoke slowly, "The mountainous region of Northern California has complex terrain and dense forests. We currently know nothing about the enemy's numbers, locations, or firepower."

"Rushing into the mountains will only make us blind and deaf, playing right into their hands."

Buckton scoffed, "I fucking thought the word didn't even exist in Pinkerton's dictionary!"

He walked up to the two of them and stared down at them.

"I almost forgot, you are different from us. We are soldiers, paid by the army, and our duty is to fight and kill. But you!"

He drew out his words, looking the two of them up and down with a mocking expression: "You're carrying the client's checks!"

"For you, this is just a business deal. Perhaps the longer you drag it out, the bigger the invoices you can get from the governor, right?"

"You're just afraid of death and losses. The death of an agent means you have to pay hefty compensation, which will affect your profits. But when we die, all we get is a tombstone with our names on it!"

"Stop fucking talking to me about caution and tactics! Forget your office tricks for dealing with capitalists!"

Buck jabbed the mountainous area on the map: "Tell me, do you even dare to be men and go into the mountains to twist those bastards' heads off!"

(End of this chapter)