Frisco was a gold rush town with a distinct Victorian style. Over 300 two-story wooden buildings lined a two-mile-long main road, housing a total population of nearly 2,000 people.
This was far larger than the typical Western settlement of fifty to two hundred souls.
Where there was gold, people swarmed.
At either end of the town stood an eight-meter-high bell tower. In the event of an attack, the bells would be rung to sound the alarm. The Sheriff's office was located about 300 meters from the main entrance.
In the American West, a town's Sheriff and his deputies were sworn lawmen who enforced county law. They had the authority to arrest suspects and bring them before a judge, and they could sign warrants and summons.
These lawmen were not appointed, but elected by the local residents. They were, in a sense, public servants, paid by the county court and subject to its jurisdiction. They operated independently of state police or federal marshals, collaborating with them when necessary.
Then there were the Federal Marshals, who enforced federal law—the 19th-century equivalent of the FBI. However, in understaffed frontier towns, a Marshal might sometimes serve as the local Sheriff. Frisco's Marshal was a Scotsman named Duncan Sinclair, who also worked out of the Sheriff's office.
Because frontier towns were often short on manpower, a Sheriff would deputize local men when facing a large outlaw gang, giving each of them a badge to serve as temporary officers. Once the crisis was over, the badges were returned, and they became civilians again.
For this reason, most Sheriffs and deputies were battle-hardened veterans with exceptional skills. Those who lacked the talent for violence usually didn't last long.
The posse of twenty-five that had been ambushed included Sheriff Bryan and four of his deputies. The other twenty men, Henry included, were all temporary deputies.
The near-total annihilation of the posse was a devastating blow to the town. At least twenty families had just lost their pillar of support.
Henry drove the herd of eleven horses like a whirlwind, arriving at the stable next to the Sheriff's office. The thunder of hooves brought men running from the building.
A balding, hawk-nosed man in his forties—Deputy Ronald McKinley—emerged with three other officers.
"Henry! Where is Sheriff Bryan?" Ronald demanded, his voice low and heavy.
"We chased the eight bandits to Coyote Hills and were ambushed by thirty-six more," Henry reported. "Sheriff Bryan and the others were killed in action. All forty-four outlaws were eliminated."
A strange light flashed in Ronald's eyes. Just as he was about to speak, an old but powerful voice cut through the air from behind him. "Young Henry, do you know who these outlaws were?"
An old man with a full head of white hair and a matching beard strode out of the office, flanked by three armed guards. He walked past Ronald and stood about two meters to Henry's side.
This was William Sinclair, the town mayor. It was he who had recruited Sheriff Bryan in the first place.
The Sinclair family was also the largest of the three founding families of the town, the other two being the McKinley and Palermo families. Each family commanded a private force of thirty to fifty gunmen.
The Sinclairs had arrived first and were the most powerful. But now, with Sheriff Bryan and four of his deputies wiped out, a significant portion of the Sinclairs' influence was gone. The balance of power had just shifted dramatically.
"The leader was about thirty, dark brown hair, a full beard," Henry said. "He had a flame tattooed on the inside of his right wrist."
William Sinclair nodded grimly. "That would be Michael Doran, an Irish executioner. His Doran Gang is wanted for major crimes in several states."
"Michael's body is still out at the hills," Henry continued. "Besides the eleven horses I brought back, there are twenty of our horses and thirty-one of theirs. We'll have to make another trip to bring back the bodies of our men, and Michael's, along with the rest of the animals."
Just then, four more young officers rushed out from the office.
"Pete!" Henry called out. "Good timing. You four, help me get these ten horses into the stable."
A lean, lanky young man named Pete rushed forward, his eyes immediately locking onto the horse carrying Sheriff Bryan's body. Tears instantly flooded his blue eyes.
He was Sheriff Bryan's nephew, and Henry's only real friend in the department.
"What happened? How could this happen? Uncle Bryan was so strong…" Pete stammered in disbelief.
"Yes, Henry," Deputy Ronald cut in, his voice cold as ice. "Why don't you explain how a master gunslinger like Sheriff Bryan couldn't escape, and yet you returned without a scratch?"
Ronald McKinley was the nail the McKinley family had hammered into the Sheriff's department, and Bryan had kept him pressed firmly under his thumb. As Bryan's trusted man, Henry had never paid Ronald any mind. Now, Henry even suspected Ronald might have had a hand in the ambush.
A faint smile touched Henry's lips. "That's simple. It's because I killed all the remaining outlaws."
Ronald was momentarily stunned speechless by his audacity. He knew Bryan's skill with a rifle was among the best he'd ever seen. That kind of mastery was the result of talent and years of sweat. How could a twenty-year-old kid possess such skill? Three months ago, Ronald had seen Henry shoot, and his performance had been mediocre at best.
His face hardening, Ronald spoke slowly. "That explanation is not reasonable. I have reason to believe you collaborated with the outlaws, leading to the deaths of the entire posse."
Henry scoffed. "If you can't produce evidence for that claim, then your reckless slander has severely damaged my reputation. I formally challenge you to a duel."
Ronald could hardly believe his ears. The hell? Does this kid have a death wish?
"Hah! The deputy's suspicion is perfectly reasonable. Besides, what gives you the right to challenge him?" a tough-looking man named James interjected. He was one of Ronald's cronies, a tall, accurate shooter of Irish descent. "I'll teach you a lesson on his behalf."
"Gentlemen!" Mayor William said, his voice heavy with authority. "The situation is unclear and we are short on fighting men. There will be no squabbling. We will settle this later."
Henry's grandfather had been the town's Sheriff before his death and had been a close friend of the mayor. William clearly didn't believe Henry's story, but he trusted the boy's character, assuming there was more to it. He stepped in to prevent the impulsive young man from getting himself killed.
Just at that moment, the alarm bell in the tower at the town entrance began to ring.
A frantic, high-pitched scream carried on the wind: "Enemy attack! Dozens, maybe a hundred riders are coming!"