Chapter 623 - 623: 595. Future Qing Updates & Convince McKinley For Waipiti

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"But," Caleb raised a finger, his tone shifting into the calculating, pragmatic reality of his corporate strategy. "We must be incredibly careful. If the federal government, specifically the Bureau of Indian Affairs, believes I am stepping in as a savior to rescue a tribe they are actively trying to oppress, they will block the transfer. They will use the military to keep the Wapiti on the reservation out of pure spite."

Mary-Beth frowned, understanding the political danger. "Then how do we get them out?"

"We play to the government's inherent greed and their prejudices," Caleb explained, his eyes cold and analytical. "I am going to write to our purchased senators in Washington. I am going to request the dissolution of the Wapiti reservation not out of mercy, but out of an economic corporate necessity. I will tell the government that the Thorne Holding Company has acquired a massive beef monopoly in the Midwest, and we require a massive influx of cheap, expendable labor to work the fields."

Mary-Beth's eyes widened slightly as she grasped the twisted brilliance of the maneuver.

"I will frame it as exploitation," Caleb continued, the strategy flawless. "I will offer the government a bureaucratic victory. I will take the 'Indian problem' off their hands, relieve the federal army of the financial burden of guarding them, and put them to work for pennies on the dollar. The racist politicians in Washington will applaud it as a triumph of industrial capitalism over the savage."

"But you won't actually pay them pennies right," Mary-Beth said, her eyes shining with understanding.

"Of course not," Caleb smiled warmly. "When they arrive in the Heartlands, they will be housed in newly constructed, insulated cabins. They will have access to the finest medical care our doctors can provide. And while I must officially list their wages at a lower rate on the federal tax ledgers to maintain the illusion of cheap labor and keep the government's eyes off us... I will quietly supplement their income through off the books stipends and bonuses drawn from our untraceable casino profits. They will be the highest paid, best treated ranch hands in the country. But to the outside world, they are just Thorne corporate property."

Mary-Beth sat back in her chair, shaking her head in profound, absolute awe of the man sitting across from her. He was using the very machinery of oppression to engineer a miracle.

"It is brilliant, Caleb," Mary-Beth whispered, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. "It is a dangerous and well crafted lie. Do it. Bring them home."

After the plates were cleared, Caleb kissed Mary-Beth goodnight and retreated to the quiet sanctuary of his private study.

He sat down at the heavy mahogany desk, pulling a fresh sheet of heavy, gold embossed Thorne Holding Company parchment toward him. He dipped his fountain pen into the inkwell and began to draft the response to Charles Smith.

'Charles,

Your letter was received and read with the utmost gravity. You do not need to ask me as a friend, you only need to tell me where the fire is, and I will bring the water.

I am mobilizing our political assets in Washington tonight. I am initiating a formal corporate petition to dissolve the Wapiti reservation in Ambarino and transfer the entire population to the Heartlands of New Hanover to serve as the primary workforce for our newly acquired livestock division.

However, you must understand the political tightrope we are walking. The federal government will not allow this out of the goodness of their hearts. I am forced to frame this acquisition as the exploitation of cheap labor to satisfy the Bureau of Indian Affairs.

For the first few months, on paper, their wages will appear lower than the standard rate. This is a necessary shield to prevent federal persecution and keep the army off our backs. I give you my absolute word, as the man who pulled you out of the snow, that their true compensation will be quietly and heavily subsidized, and their living conditions will be beyond exceptional.

Ride north to the reservation. Speak to Chief Rains Fall. Tell him that Caleb Thorne is offering his people a permanent sanctuary in the Heartlands. Tell him to hold his young men back from violence for just a few more weeks. The cavalry is not coming to destroy them. The trains are coming to bring them home.

— Caleb.'

Caleb signed the letter with a sharp, definitive flourish. He folded the parchment, slid it into an envelope, and sealed it with heavy red wax, pressing the Thorne crest firmly into the center.

He set the letter on the edge of the desk to be dispatched with the morning couriers. He looked out the heavy glass window of his study, toward the dark, star filled sky over Saint Denis.

The next day, the morning sun broke over the Garden District of Saint Denis, casting long, golden rays across the manicured lawns and the towering white pillars of the Thorne estate. Inside the quiet sanctuary of his private study, Caleb did not wait for the sun to rise entirely before setting his machinery in motion.

The heavy, encrypted T&T radio receiver sat on the edge of his mahogany desk, its brass toggle switches gleaming in the early light. The vacuum tubes inside the wooden housing hummed with a low, steady electrical current, warming up the internal circuits.

Caleb sat down in his leather armchair, adjusted his cuffs, and flipped the primary toggle switch. He waited a moment as the atmospheric relay caught the signal, creating a low, crackling hum of static. Then, using the secure, direct line frequency reserved exclusively for high level executive communication, he spoke clearly into the metal mesh.

"Saint Denis actual, calling Washington Executive. Do you read, Mr. President?"

The static hissed for several long seconds, the electrical waves bouncing through the relay towers stretching up the Mississippi River toward the capital. Then, a sharp, clear click echoed from the speaker box.

"I heard you loud and clear, Caleb," President William McKinley's voice crackled through the wooden speaker. The President sounded rested, though the unmistakable weight of a global empire hummed beneath his tone. "It is early for you to be calling the White House. I trust nothing has gone sideways in Lemoyne?"

Caleb offered a warm, easy smile, leaning back in his chair. "Nothing has gone sideways, Mr. President. In fact, the swamps are entirely quiet, and the roads are running smoother than ever. I am simply calling to check on the pulse of the republic."

A soft, weary chuckle echoed from the other end of the line. "The republic is standing, Caleb, though barely, mostly because half the world seems intent on pulling it apart by its seams. But it is good to hear your voice. How are things down in the South? How is your charming wife?"

"Mary-Beth is resting comfortably, Mr. President. The pregnancy is progressing wonderfully, thank you for asking," Caleb replied, his voice softening with genuine warmth. "And how are you holding up under the crushing weight of the nation? Are you eating properly, or is Mrs. McKinley still having to scold you for skipping meals over cabinet reports?"

"She watches me like a hawk, I assure you," McKinley laughed, the personal rapport between the two men softening the formal boundaries of politics. "Though I confess, between the domestic tariffs and the escalating powder keg in Asia, my appetite occasionally suffers. Which brings me to wonder why you called so early. You rarely check in on my health without a strategic objective in mind, Caleb."

"Can a man not inquire about the health of his President without an ulterior motive?" Caleb teased lightly, before letting out a smooth, low chuckle. "Though, since you brought it up... I would be deeply interested in hearing how our little endeavor in the Qing dynasty is unfolding. Sadie keeps me well informed through the local dispatches, but hearing it directly from the Commander in Chief provides a rather unique perspective."

McKinley's tone instantly shifted, adopting the sharp, analytical cadence of a statesman discussing a grand geopolitical chess match.

"It is going remarkably well, Caleb, largely thanks to the structural framework you laid out for us," McKinley admitted, genuine respect evident in his voice. "The Eight-Nation Alliance expeditionary force has secured the vital supply lines and pushed the Boxers back toward Peking. But the true victory is happening at the diplomatic table. Because France and England threw their full weight behind our Open Door policy, we have successfully isolated the more aggressive territorial ambitions of Russia and Japan. They are furious, of course, their ambassadors practically stomped out of the State Department yesterday, but they cannot afford to break away from the alliance while the military campaign is still active."

"And the Qing government?" Caleb prompted, resting his elbows on the desk.

"Cooperative, within the limits of their internal chaos," McKinley replied. "The Emperor is utilizing our diplomatic shield to purge the conservative, anti foreign factions from his own court. We are maintaining open, transparent communication channels, ensuring they understand that America's presence is designed to protect their sovereignty, not partition their land. And I must tell you, your radio technology has been an absolute godsend. Being able to communicate directly with our fleet commanders and diplomats in real time without relying on vulnerable undersea cables has given us an astronomical advantage over the European delegations."

"I am exceedingly glad to hear it, Mr. President," Caleb said smoothly. "As I told you when we first laid the copper wire, communication is the absolute bedrock of power. Keep holding the line with France and England. As long as that tripartite block remains unified, neither St. Petersburg nor Tokyo and Berlin as well, will dare make a reckless move."

"We are holding the line, Caleb. Secretary Hay is not blinking," McKinley assured him. Then, a brief pause settled over the radio line, followed by a slight rustle of papers. "Now... you have received my dispatches on the global front, and you have charmed me into revealing our hand. What is the real reason for your call this morning, Caleb? What are you building?"

Caleb took a slow breath, his expression sharpening into absolute focus. The casual pleasantries were over. It was time to execute the strategy.

"I am expanding our agricultural and livestock infrastructure in the Midwest, Mr. President," Caleb began, his voice dropping into a measured, highly calculated register. "As you know, the Thorne Holding Company recently acquired a massive, nearly absolute monopoly over the cattle auction yards, the grazing ranches, and the meat packing logistics across the entire territory of New Hanover."

"Yes, I read the financial reports. Wall Street is still trying to figure out how a private southern syndicate quietly bought out the entire Heartlands in forty eight hours," McKinley chuckled softly. "You move faster than a Kansas tornado, Caleb."

"Which brings me to a rather pressing operational bottleneck," Caleb continued, seamlessly pivoting toward his true objective. "A massive, industrialized beef monopoly requires an equally massive, highly skilled labor force to manage the herds, maintain the sprawling acreage, and operate the slaughterhouses. The local frontier labor pool is entirely unreliable, transient, and prone to violent disruptions."

"I imagine cowboys aren't known for their corporate compliance," McKinley noted dryly.

"Not even remotely," Caleb agreed. "Which is why I have been looking northward. Specifically, toward the federal reservations in the rugged alpine territory of Ambarino. Specifically, the Wapiti Indian Reservation."

A heavy, dead silence instantly filled the radio line. The static hissed for several long seconds before McKinley spoke again, his voice dropping several octaves, carrying a distinct tone of political caution.

"The Wapiti Reservation? Caleb... what on earth are you proposing?" McKinley asked, clearly caught entirely off guard. "Those lands are under the direct jurisdiction of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. The federal government has placed them under severe restrictions, and the military regards them as a hostile, volatile population. You cannot simply look at a federal Indian reservation and treat it as a corporate human resource pool."

"Why not, Mr. President?" Caleb countered, his tone perfectly reasonable, coated in the cold, unfeeling pragmatism of an industrial capitalist. "Right now, the Wapiti people are sitting on frozen, barren rock in Ambarino, entirely dependent on shrinking federal rations, costing the taxpayer a small fortune in military upkeep, and creating a perpetual security risk for the Department of War. It is a drain on the federal budget, a humanitarian failure, and an administrative nightmare for the Bureau of Indian Affairs."

Caleb leaned closer to the microphone, driving the economic argument home with absolute precision.

"I am offering to take the 'Indian problem' off your administration's hands permanently," Caleb stated smoothly. "I am formally proposing a corporate acquisition and labor transfer. I want the federal government to dissolve the Wapiti reservation status, relocate the entire tribe to the fertile, productive ranches we now own in the Heartlands of New Hanover, and place them under the direct employment of the Thorne Holding Company."

McKinley let out a sharp, incredulous breath on the other end of the line. "Caleb, do you hear yourself? You are talking about moving an entire indigenous tribe off federal land to work as manual laborers for a private corporation. The political backlash would be cataclysmic! The progressive reformists in Congress would scream exploitation, and the conservative hardliners in the War Department would accuse you of trying to build a private army of displaced natives!"

"There will be no backlash, Mr. President, because we will frame it entirely in the language of industrial capitalism," Caleb countered, his voice ringing with absolute, hypnotic authority. "We will present it to the Bureau of Indian Affairs as a triumph of assimilation and cheap, productive labor. We relieve the federal army of the financial burden of guarding a hostile border. We take the paupers off the government dole and turn them into self sufficient, tax paying corporate contributors. We will list their wages on the federal ledgers as standard, baseline compensation for agricultural laborers. The racist politicians in Washington will applaud it as a masterclass in breaking up tribal dependency through the glorious machine of free market exploitation."

McKinley fell silent. He was a brilliant, pragmatic politician, and he understood the brutal, realpolitik mechanics of Washington. He saw the sheer, staggering political convenience of Caleb's proposal.

If the Thorne Holding Company absorbed the Wapiti tribe, the federal government would instantly save tens to possibly hundreds of thousands dollars years of military expenditures, eliminate a volatile border conflict, and wash their hands of a humanitarian crisis, all while hiding behind the impenetrable corporate shield of a private monopoly.

"You are a dangerously persuasive man, Caleb," McKinley muttered, a mixture of awe and exhaustion in his voice. "You look at a human tragedy and immediately calculate its balance sheet."

"I look at a human tragedy and offer a practical, permanent survival mechanism that the government is too incompetent to provide on its own," Caleb corrected firmly, though his tone remained respectful. "The Wapiti are starving on that mountain, Mr. President. The army is slowly tightening a noose around their necks. My plan saves their lives, provides them with homes, food, and employment, and gives your administration a massive administrative victory to tout in the upcoming congressional briefings. Everyone wins."

"Except the Bureau of Indian Affairs, who will fight tooth and nail to protect their bureaucratic fiefdom," McKinley pointed out grimly.

"Let them fight me," Caleb challenged softly. "You simply need to point them in my direction, open the door, and let me handle the negotiations. I am asking for your presidential endorsement and your political cover, Mr. President. I am asking you to tell the Bureau that this transfer has your absolute, unreserved backing as a vital measure for midwestern economic stability."

McKinley let out a long, heavy sigh, the sound of a man standing on the edge of a cliff and deciding to take the leap.

"I cannot make any promises, Caleb," McKinley conceded carefully. "Those bureaucrats at the Bureau of Indian Affairs are as stubborn as mules, and they guard their jurisdiction with the fury of a wounded bear. But... I agree that the current situation in Ambarino is untenable, and your proposal does offer a rather clean, politically viable exit strategy."

The President paused, collecting his final thoughts.

"I will speak with the Head of the Bureau personally," McKinley promised. "I will inform him that the Thorne Holding Company has formally requested a labor transfer of the Wapiti population to support our national beef infrastructure. I will strongly encourage him to open formal negotiations with your legal counsel. That is as far as I can go, Caleb. The rest of the battle is yours to fight."

"That is all I ever ask for, Mr. President. An open door and a fair field," Caleb smiled, genuine appreciation in his voice. "Keep yourself safe in Washington, sir. Continue listening to Sadie's directives regarding your security detail. The world needs you at that desk."

"Thank you, Caleb. McKinley out."

The line clicked dead, the heavy static fading away as the vacuum tubes hummed.

Caleb leaned back in his leather chair, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across his face. The political anchor had been dropped. The President of the United States had officially agreed to open the door to the Bureau of Indian Affairs.

Caleb stood up, buttoning his vest, and stepped out of his study. He found Pierre waiting downstairs, already briefed on the overarching strategy, surrounded by leather binders containing federal labor laws, corporate charter templates, and interstate transfer petitions.

"Pierre," Caleb called out as he descended the stairs. "The President has agreed to lean on the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Prepare the formal acquisition documents. We are going to Washington, or rather, they are going to come to us." True to McKinley's word, the administrative wheels turned with terrifying, unprecedented speed.

...

Name: Caleb Thorne

Age: 23

Body Attributes:

- Strength: 8/10

- Agility: 8/10

- Perception: 9/10

- Stamina: 8/10

- Charm: 8/10

- Luck: 9/10

Skills:

- Handgun (Lvl MAX)

- Rifle (Lvl MAX)

- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)

- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)

- Knife (Lvl MAX)

- Blunt Weapon (Lvl MAX)

- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)

- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)

- Poker (Lvl MAX)

- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)

- Eagle Eye (Lvl MAX)

- Dead Eye (Lvl MAX)

- Bow (Lvl MAX)

- Pain Nullifier (Lvl MAX)

- Physical Regeneration (Lvl MAX)

- Crafting (Lvl MAX)

- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)

- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)

- Cooking (Lvl MAX)

- Teaching (Lvl MAX)

- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)

- Inventory System (Permanent - 100x100x100)

- Acting (Lvl MAX)

- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)

- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)

- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)

- Business (Lvl MAX)

- Leadership (Lvl MAX)

Money: 2,772 dollars and 60 cents

Inventory: 283,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 74 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern, & 3 Diamonds

Bank: -