Chapter 624 - 624: 596. Persuade The Government

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"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.

For the next several days, while Caleb split his mornings between Tesla's laboratory and his afternoons at the Wright brothers' aviation hangar, Pierre worked relentlessly in the Saint Denis study, drafting an airtight, impenetrable mountain of legal paperwork designed to trick the federal government into saving a native tribe under the guise of corporate exploitation.

Simultaneously, up in the rugged, freezing mountains of Ambarino, Charles Smith received Caleb's letter.

True to his word, Charles had ridden hard through the snow choked mountain passes until he reached the isolated, desperate cluster of tipis that made up the Wapiti Indian Reservation. He had requested an audience with Chief Rains Fall, presenting Caleb's letter, laying out the reality of their impending doom under Colonel Favours's starvation tactics, and offering them the lifeline that's was in the form of Thorne Holding Company.

Chief Rains Fall, a man whose deep, mournful eyes carried the accumulated weight of a dying culture, had sat by a dying campfire, reading the words of the southern industrialist over and over again. He had looked at the starving children, the freezing elders, and the hot headed young men like his son, Eagle Flies, who were sharpening their hunting knives for a suicidal war against the cavalry.

Rains Fall had made the only logical choice a true leader could make. He chose the survival of his people over the hollow pride of dying on a frozen rock. He had sent a swift courier back down the mountain to Charles, confirming their absolute, desperate willingness to accept Caleb's sanctuary.

And then, exactly five days after Caleb's radio call to the White House, the inevitable notification arrived.

Antonio knocked gently on the door of the study, stepping inside with a heavily sealed federal telegram.

"A priority wire from the Department of the Interior, Boss," Antonio reported, handing the paper to Caleb. "The Bureau of Indian Affairs has formally requested a direct, private conference via the secure T&T radio relay. They wish to negotiate the terms of the Wapiti labor transfer."

Caleb took the telegram, scanning the cold, bureaucratic text. The Bureau had taken the bait. Hook, line, and sinker.

"Tell them we are ready," Caleb instructed calmly, looking up at Pierre, who was already standing by with his briefcase. "Set up the conference receiver in the study. Bring every single employment contract, housing blueprint, and medical provision ledger we drafted. We are going to conduct a corporate acquisition of human lives, and we are going to make it look like the most profitable spreadsheet the federal government has ever seen."

An hour later, the private study had been transformed into an executive boardroom.

Caleb sat behind his massive mahogany desk. Sitting immediately to his right was Pierre, his fingers resting tightly on a towering stack of perfectly organized legal documents. Vincenzo and Silvio stood like carved granite statues by the heavy oak doors, their dark suits and cold eyes adding an unmistakable undercurrent of syndicate danger to the proceedings.

On the corner of the desk sat the heavy T&T radio transceiver, its vacuum tubes glowing a warm, steady amber.

Caleb flipped the toggle switch. The line hissed with static, connecting the private Saint Denis study directly to the vaulted, smoke filled hearing rooms of the Department of the Interior in Washington, D.C.

"Saint Denis, this is Washington Department of the Interior. Commissioner Henry Cass is on the line, accompanied by representatives from the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and... President McKinley is monitoring the transmission from the executive gallery," a crisp and formal federal operator announced through the speaker.

A moment later, a sharp, abrasive voice cut through the static, carrying the unmistakable arrogance of a high ranking federal bureaucrat who viewed human beings as mere statistics on a ledger.

"Mr. Thorne? This is Commissioner Henry Cass," the voice barked from the speaker box. "I have received the executive memorandum from the Executive Mansion regarding your rather... unorthodox corporate petition to absorb the Wapiti reservation population into your midwestern livestock division."

Caleb leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, his voice smooth, calm, and completely devoid of any emotional warmth.

"Good afternoon, Commissioner Cass," Caleb replied, projecting the absolute pinnacle of corporate confidence. "I trust President McKinley made my operational objectives entirely clear. The Thorne Holding Company requires a massive, dedicated labor force to manage our newly acquired ranches and slaughterhouses in New Hanover. The Wapiti population currently languishing in Ambarino represents a severely underutilized, highly capable workforce that is currently generating zero economic value for the federal government."

"Underutilized?" Commissioner Cass scoffed loudly over the wire, a sound of profound bureaucratic condescension echoing from Washington. "Mr. Thorne, those Indians are a hostile, unassimilated tribal population. They are a security risk! The Department of War has spent years trying to keep them contained on that reservation. You walk in here with your slick southern money and casually suggest we hand them over to a private corporation as farmhands?"

"I am not suggesting you hand them over as charitable wards, Commissioner. I am offering to buy out their operational overhead," Caleb corrected coldly, his tone hardening into steel. "Let us look at the numbers, Commissioner. Right now, the federal government is spending upwards of fifty thousand dollars annually just to ship dwindling flour rations and rotting blankets up a frozen mountain in Ambarino, while the Department of War is bleeding money stationing two cavalry regiments nearby to prevent a skirmish. And what do you get in return? Zero tax revenue, constant political unrest, and the lingering threat of an armed insurrection."

Caleb paused, letting the crushing financial logic sink into the federal hearing room in Washington.

"Under my proposal," Caleb continued, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, hypnotic cadence, "the federal government's expenditure drops to absolute zero overnight. You dissolve the reservation status, legally transfer their residency to our private corporate acreage in New Hanover, and completely wash your hands of their welfare. We absorb the full financial responsibility of housing them, feeding them, and policing them. Furthermore, we will officially list their baseline wages on the federal tax ledgers, turning a parasitic government drain into a tax paying, productive labor force that will actively subsidize the beef supply of the entire Midwest."

In the Washington hearing room, absolute silence fell over the Bureau of Indian Affairs representatives. They were lifelong bureaucrats who understood only two things, budget cuts and political liability. Caleb was offering them a clean, permanent solution to a massive political headache, wrapped in the glittering packaging of industrial capitalism.

"Well... your financial logic is certainly thorough, Mr. Thorne," Commissioner Cass conceded, his arrogant tone noticeably deflated, replaced by the cautious greed of a bureaucrat sensing a win. "And the Executive Mansion has made it quite clear that the administration looks favorably upon any measure that stabilizes regional industrial output. But the Bureau of Indian Affairs cannot simply sign away federal wards to a private enterprise without ensuring absolute oversight. We have a legal and moral obligation to protect their welfare."

"Of course you do, Commissioner. My legal counsel has drafted a comprehensive oversight clause into Section 4 of the transfer agreement," Caleb lied seamlessly, signaling to Pierre, who immediately tapped the relevant page of the blank contract. "We welcome federal transparency."

"Good," Cass barked, seizing control of the point. "Because here are our non negotiable terms for the transfer, Mr. Thorne. The Bureau of Indian Affairs will agree to dissolve the Wapiti reservation and permit their relocation to New Hanover under your corporate banner. However, to ensure that these federal wards are properly treated and not subjected to abusive industrial exploitation, the Bureau will dispatch a federal overseer directly to your ranches."

A heavy, suffocating silence dropped over the Saint Denis study.

Vincenzo's jaw clenched, his hand tightening visibly on the lapel of his suit. Pierre stopped breathing entirely, looking nervously up at Caleb.

A federal overseer. A government spy planted directly on their private property, monitoring the hidden stipends, inspecting the insulated cabins, poking his nose into the sanctuary they were building for the Wapiti, and threatening to expose the entire humanitarian operation to federal persecution.

Caleb did not blink. But the temperature in the private study seemed to drop twenty degrees instantly.

When Caleb spoke, his voice did not rise. It dropped into a quiet, low, terrifying whisper that made even Vincenzo and Pierre take an involuntary step back from the desk.

"A federal overseer," Caleb repeated, each syllable dripping with a cold, lethal venom that somehow translated effortlessly through the copper wires of the radio receiver all the way to Washington, D.C.

On the other end of the line, Commissioner Cass suddenly hesitated. "Y-Yes, Mr. Thorne. A standard administrative representative of the Bureau to—"

"Listen to me very carefully, Commissioner Cass," Caleb interrupted, his voice cutting through the static like a razor sharp butcher knife.

The aura of absolute, terrifying dominance, the supernatural weight of an apex predator who had slaughtered a hundred men in the dark of the Lemoyne swamps, unleashed itself through the microphone. Though Caleb was sitting a thousand miles away in Louisiana, every single man sitting in the Department of the Interior hearing room in Washington suddenly felt an icy, visceral grip close around their throats. The room in D.C. went dead silent, the federal officials freezing in their seats, entirely paralyzed by the sheer, suffocating terror radiating from the speaker box.

"You will not send a petty, bureaucratic spy to walk around my ranches and interfere with the operational productivity of my workforce," Caleb stated, every word falling like a falling guillotine. "I am investing tens to hundreds of thousands of my own capital to relocate, house, and care for these people. I am providing them with a standard of living they have never experienced in their lives. I will not tolerate a government parasite wandering my property, harassing my people, and disrupting the delicate harmony of my enterprise."

Commissioner Cass stammered, his voice trembling with genuine fright. "M-Mr. Thorne! That is entirely unacceptable! We must insist on—"

"You will insist on nothing," Caleb roared softly, the quiet thunder of his voice shaking the vacuum tubes on the desk. "If you send an overseer who does not understand the delicate cultural balance of my workforce, if he acts out of line, if he brings his petty political corruption onto my land, and if he causes my workers to become distressed and unable to perform their duties... that will result in a huge drop in agricultural productivity across the Heartlands."

Caleb leaned right into the microphone, his eyes blazing with a cold, dead eyed fury.

"And a huge drop in our beef supply will cause food prices to skyrocket in the middle of a national industrial boom, Commissioner. A disruption that the Executive Mansion will trace directly back to your desk, and your unnecessary, meddling interference. Do you understand me?"

In Washington, Commissioner Cass was visibly sweating, his hands shaking as he gripped the edges of the mahogany table, entirely dominated by the sheer force of nature on the other end of the wire.

"W-We... we understand your concerns regarding productivity, Mr. Thorne," Cass gasped, completely backing down, utterly defeated. "Perhaps... perhaps the overseer can operate purely in an advisory capacity. A distant administrative presence. Someone who stays in Valentine and only reviews paperwork, without ever setting foot on your private ranches."

Caleb held the terrifying aura for three more seconds, letting the silence stretch to the breaking point, before he smoothly reeled his lethal dominance back in, letting a warm, entirely fake amicability flood back into his tone.

"A purely administrative, paper pushing presence in Valentine, Commissioner? That sounds like an entirely reasonable, highly efficient compromise," Caleb said smoothly, as if he hadn't just threatened to ruin a federal official's career a moment before. "We appreciate your deep commitment to administrative efficiency, Cass. My legal counsel will have the final transfer documents finalized and wired to your office within the hour."

"Splendid, Mr. Thorne. Splendid. We shall... we shall await the paperwork," Cass whispered shakily.

"Good day, Commissioner."

Caleb flipped the toggle switch, instantly killing the transmission. The glowing amber tubes slowly faded to a dull amber.

The study was bathed in absolute silence.

Pierre let out a massive, trembling breath, wiping a heavy layer of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. Vincenzo let out a low, highly approving whistle, shaking his head.

"Remind me never to get on your bad side over the radio, Boss," Vincenzo grinned, a dark, deeply respectful smirk on his face.

Caleb stood up from his desk, buttoning his suit jacket, the chilling aura completely vanished, replaced once again by the calm, brilliant facade of the industrial titan.

"The Wapiti are coming home," Caleb stated quietly, walking over to the window and looking out toward the sunlit expanse of the Garden District. "Pierre, finalize the paperwork. Send it to Washington immediately. Then, prepare a private, armored train. We are riding south to Strawberry to pick up Charles before form the town head north to Waipiti."

Vincenzo listened to the order, his dark eyes tracking the sudden, absolute shift in Caleb's demeanor. The chilling, suffocating aura of the syndicate boss had vanished, instantly replaced by the sharp, forward driving energy of the industrial titan. The underboss gave a sharp, definitive nod.

"I'll have the train fired up and the men assembled at the station by dawn, Boss," Vincenzo confirmed, turning on his heel. "Pierre, get those transfer documents sealed and wired to the capital before they have time to reconsider their compromise."

"I am already at the telegraph office in my mind, Vincenzo," Pierre muttered, frantically gathering the towering stacks of legal parchment, his hands still trembling slightly from the sheer terror of the radio call.

With the logistics actively spinning into motion, Caleb stepped out of the study and ascended the grand, sweeping staircase of the mansion. The adrenaline of the political assassination he had just committed over the radio waves slowly bled from his system, replaced by a profound, grounding warmth as he approached the master suite.

He opened the heavy mahogany door softly. The room was bathed in the warm, ambient glow of the gas sconces. Mary-Beth was sitting in a plush velvet armchair near the window, a cup of chamomile tea resting in her hands. She looked up as he entered, her dark eyes immediately searching his face for the verdict.

Caleb didn't make her wait. He smiled, a genuine, brilliant expression of victory, and walked across the room to kneel beside her chair.

"The federal government has surrendered," Caleb announced softly, taking her free hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "The Bureau of Indian Affairs has officially agreed to dissolve the reservation. They are transferring the administrative oversight of the Wapiti tribe to our corporate ranches in the Heartlands. The overseer they insisted upon will be nothing more than a paper pusher confined to a desk in Valentine, completely blind to what actually happens on our property."

Mary-Beth let out a long, shuddering breath, her shoulders dropping as the immense tension left her body. A radiant, beautiful smile broke across her face.

"You did it," she whispered, her eyes shining with tears of absolute relief. "You actually beat them at their own bureaucratic game. Oh, Caleb, Charles is going to be so incredibly happy. Those poor people... they are finally going to be warm. They are going to be safe."

"They will be," Caleb promised, reaching up to gently cup her cheek. "But the legal victory is only the first step. The paperwork is signed in Washington, but the reality of this transition relies entirely on trust. I cannot simply send a train up to a freezing mountain and expect a proud, terrified people to blindly board it. I have to go to them. I have to look their Chief in the eye and prove to him that I am not just another white man coming to steal their future."

Mary-Beth's smile softened into a look of deep, understanding support. She knew the demands of his empire, and she knew the depths of his loyalty.

"When do you leave?" she asked gently.

"Tomorrow morning, at first light," Caleb replied. "I will take the armored train to the station nearest to Strawberry. I will pick up Charles there, and we will ride north into Ambarino together. The journey into the mountains will take time. I may be gone for several days, Mary-Beth."

She nodded slowly, her hand coming up to rest over his where it cupped her cheek. "I understand. You go to them, Caleb. You bring them down from that frozen rock. I will be perfectly safe here, and I will be waiting for you when you return."

Caleb stood up, pulling her gently from the chair and wrapping her in a fierce, protective embrace. "I love you. I will bring them home, and then I am coming right back to you."

The next morning, the Saint Denis rail yard was shrouded in a thick, rolling coastal fog. The train sat on the primary track, its massive black boiler hissing aggressively, completely unaffected by the damp chill in the air.

Caleb strode down the wooden platform, dressed for the harsh elevation of the northern mountains. He wore a heavy, fur lined wool coat, thick leather gloves, and dark trousers tucked into rugged riding boots. Flanking him were Vincenzo and Silvio, managing the perimeter, while Arthur and Javier walked right behind him. Javier had specifically been chosen for this excursion due to his unparalleled tracking skills and his ability to navigate treacherous, high altitude terrain.

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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: -