Thinking back, the whole chase and ambush this afternoon reeked of something strange.
Henry felt as if the outlaws had intentionally lured the Sheriff's department into a kill zone.
Outlaws and bandits did what they did for profit. Who in their right mind would set up a dedicated ambush just to kill lawmen? It made no sense. Sheriff Bryan and his posse weren't escorting any kind of valuable cargo.
An attack like this was tantamount to declaring war on the entire American justice system. Even if the ambush succeeded, they'd be hunted relentlessly. They'd never know a moment's peace.
Something was very wrong with this picture.
Henry knew he had to use every means at his disposal to increase his strength, and fast.
Meanwhile, about fifteen miles away, a column of eighty-six heavily armed horsemen was galloping toward Frisco.
The man in the lead, a blond-haired, blue-eyed rider named Jack, was around forty. He was powerfully built, but his handsome face was marred by a burn scar on his left cheek the size of a baby's palm, twisting his features into a terrifying scowl.
Jack's brow was furrowed. He turned to the man riding half a length behind him, a dark-haired Irishman in his thirties named Gallagher. "Michael is half an hour late. Knowing his damn arrogance, he probably got tired of waiting and went after Bryan on his own."
Gallagher's face was grim. As Michael's cousin, he knew just how wild and uncontrollable he could be.
According to the intel he'd gathered, Sheriff Bryan was no small-town lawman. He was a famed gunslinger from the Confederate Army during the Civil War. After the South's defeat, he'd gone into hiding, changing his name and working as a bounty hunter far from home, eventually settling in Frisco.
Worse, Bryan was only thirty-eight years old, still in the prime of his life.
Dear Lord, Gallagher prayed silently, please don't let anything have happened to Michael. He's the last man in our branch of the family.
Back at the ambush site, Henry made one last attempt, trying to store the outlaw leader's nearby Appaloosa horse into the golden sphere. It didn't work.
It seemed the space couldn't hold living creatures.
He did, however, find three of the outlaws' horses that had been killed in the crossfire. He stored their carcasses without issue.
Henry rode over to a large black poplar and dismounted, settling down with his back against the trunk, facing away from the road. He pulled out the Patek Philippe. The time was 3:31 PM.
Then, he focused his mind on the panel in his vision, specifically on the small "+" that had appeared next to "Constitution: LV 1".
A warm current materialized from thin air, enveloping his entire body in a deeply intoxicating sensation.
At the same time, a flood of phantom experiences poured into his mind—the muscle memory of handling countless rifles, especially the Winchester 1873.
Then came the instinct for drawing two Colt 1878 revolvers from their holsters in a blur of motion and firing with deadly speed.
Finally, he felt the ingrained knowledge of a lifetime spent with horses—breaking them, driving them with a lasso, and riding them across any terrain imaginable.
When Henry came to his senses, exactly three minutes had passed on his pocket watch.
One minute per infusion? he wondered.
His Constitution was now LV 2. The process had consumed forty of the grey pearls he'd collected. He now had two unused Level 1 grey pearls, five spent grey husks, five spent white husks, and two spent green husks.
The white husks could now block a rifle bullet.
The green husks could block a machine gun bullet.
Henry felt as if he'd personally spent twenty years training with every kind of rifle. He could pick up any model on the market and use it as an extension of his own arm. With the Winchester 1873, he was confident he could hit a stationary target in the head from 400 yards, every single time. Against a moving target, his accuracy would be over 80%.
And Bryan's rifle… it was a special "One of One Thousand" model. A high-end, limited edition with the finest barrel, a custom-tuned trigger, and meticulously polished metal parts.
With a rifle like that, Bryan had been able to take heads at 500 yards.
One yard is about 0.914 meters, so 500 yards is 457 meters.
For a repeating firearm of this era, that was terrifyingly effective. No wonder he'd found at least thirty bodies with .44 caliber holes clean through their skulls. Bryan had likely taken most of them down himself. But even a master couldn't fight against an army. The sheer numbers had overwhelmed him, and he'd taken them all down with him.
As for the Colt 1878s, Henry now knew he could draw both guns and hit a target 30 meters away in less than half a blink of an eye.
His horsemanship was now that of a veteran cowboy with two decades of experience. He knew horses inside and out, and his skill with a rope and in the saddle was second to none.
Henry took out Bryan's "One of One Thousand" Winchester and began to load it, cartridge by cartridge. Then he loaded his own, and then five more. After that, he took out the two Colt 1878 revolvers and filled each of their six-round cylinders.
Except for his own rifle and Bryan's, he left the safeties off on the other stored weapons, ready to be used at a moment's notice. He found he could summon and dismiss items from the storage space instantly, with a mere thought. He was the god of that small dimension, with perfect knowledge of everything within it.
Finally, Henry picked three of the most vicious-looking outlaw corpses and stored them in the sphere—bounties. He tied Sheriff Bryan's body to his own horse, mounted his steed, and rounded up ten of the outlaws' horses, driving the herd back toward Frisco.
About ten minutes after Henry left, Jack and Gallagher's column of riders entered the hilly pass. They immediately found the bodies of Michael and his men.
Tears streamed silently down Gallagher's face. The last man of his line was gone. The family name would die with him.
A blood debt must be paid in blood.
Gallagher clenched his fists, his teeth grinding as he swore an oath of vengeance.
They soon discovered the bodies of the Frisco lawmen as well, but Bryan's was nowhere to be found. It seemed the ambush was a partial success—the Sheriff's department only had one sheriff and five deputies; the rest of the posse were temps.
But they didn't know if Bryan was dead or alive.
Gallagher spoke, his voice cold. "Someone must have found them. Let's ride on to Frisco. We'll see if we can force our way in. At the very least, we need to find out what happened to Bryan."
Jack nodded in agreement, his voice like ice. "If Bryan isn't dead, we'll make the town give him up. This is an eighteen-year-old grudge between him and me."
The troop of riders spurred their horses, galloping hard toward Frisco.
By now, Henry was already approaching the town, the herd of eleven horses kicking up a massive cloud of dust behind him.
The majestic, sprawling landscape of the West unfolded around him. A lone rider and his herd, kicking up a cloud of dust against the setting sun—a scene of profound desolation and untamed freedom.