Henry slung his own Winchester over his back, laid Bryan's rifle across the pommel of his saddle, and spurred his horse toward the town entrance without a moment's hesitation.
The others just stared at each other, stunned. Nearly a hundred armed and mounted men.
The average outlaw was several times more dangerous than a civilian. They were men accustomed to a life of violence, their skills honed by constant conflict.
And now, Sheriff Bryan was dead, and Marshal Duncan was out of town. There was no one left with the authority to organize a proper defense. If the townsfolk fought on their own, they'd be slaughtered.
Worse, the enemy was already at their doorstep.
A thick cloud of despair began to settle over the men.
"Gentlemen!" Mayor William's voice boomed, cutting through the fear. "This is our home. We have nowhere to retreat. We will not let that boy fight alone!"
His words shocked Ronald and the others back to their senses. They scrambled onto the outlaws' horses and galloped after Henry.
Inspired, more than forty men poured out of their homes, rifles in hand, forming a long, running line toward the town entrance.
By the time Henry reached the edge of town, the outlaw gang was a rolling cloud of dust on the horizon. The vanguard was just about to enter the 500-yard range.
He leaped from his horse, grabbing the "One of One Thousand" Winchester. With a slap on the rump, he sent his horse running for cover.
Then, with a practiced smoothness that spoke of a thousand drills, he settled the walnut stock against his right shoulder, raised the rifle, and began to fire.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Working the lever in a steady, fluid rhythm, Henry unleashed a rate of fire that felt like a semi-automatic rifle from his past life.
Every shot found its mark. With every sharp report, another rider tumbled from his saddle.
After the upgrade to his constitution, Henry's awareness was preternatural. He could track the position and sequence of the charging riders, even sensing their intent to raise their own weapons. It allowed him to calmly prioritize and eliminate anyone who tried to shoot first.
Someone had once tested the Winchester 1873, emptying its 15-round magazine in eleven seconds.
Henry felt he could do it in ten.
He emptied the rifle's magazine in a blur, felling fifteen riders. The air filled with the screams of horses and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the dirt.
He dropped the empty rifle, instantly raised his own, and continued firing just as the main body of the gang entered the 400-yard effective range.
Again, not a single bullet was wasted. The rhythmic, relentless roar of his rifle was like a death knell. Every shot was answered by an outlaw being violently thrown to the ground.
Huh?
His first miss. The enemy leader, as if sensing the danger, jerked his head aside at the last second, dodging the bullet meant to take his life.
Henry immediately adjusted his aim, targeting the man's leg.
CRACK!
This time, there was no escape. The shot tore a bloody hole in the leader's thigh, sending a spray of flesh and gore into the air.
The leader cried out in pain, yanking on his reins, trying desperately to turn his horse and flee. The gunman he was facing was a demon, impossibly accurate.
But a second shot followed instantly, tearing through his side as he turned and blowing a massive hole in his torso.
His strength failed him. His vision went black, and he pitched forward, crashing heavily to the ground.
Henry continued his work, picking off the closest riders and those who dared to fire back. Bullets began to whistle past his head.
But at this range, shooting from the back of a galloping horse was a fool's game. For most of the outlaws, hitting anything from over 300 yards was pure luck.
Henry, however, had the protection of his Release Pearls. Six white husks, six guaranteed blocks against rifle fire. Fearless, he could take his time and aim with perfect calm.
Another ten seconds passed. The second rifle was empty. Thirteen more riders were down.
The entire vanguard of the charge now lay dead or dying in the dirt.
Henry immediately began reloading his rifle.
The remaining riders, now just over 200 yards away, saw his rifle go silent. Overjoyed, they raised their own guns and unleashed a volley of fire. They had been on the verge of despair, feeling as if they were crashing against an unmovable wall of rock. If it hadn't been so difficult to turn in the charge, they would have scattered the moment their leader, Jack, was killed.
The chaos of fallen men and panicked horses had already slowed their momentum to a crawl.
Thwip! Thwip!
Bullets tore through the air around him. He braced himself for the impact.
Two of his white pearl husks shattered without a sound.
At two hundred yards, their accuracy had improved significantly.
It was then that the other lawmen and the townsfolk finally reached the entrance. They took cover behind the wooden buildings, peering out to fire, only to be stunned silent by the scene of absolute carnage before them.
In the watchtower, the sentry's jaw had long since hit the floor.
Henry had only managed to load four new cartridges when he simply swapped the rifle for a fresh, fully loaded one from his storage space.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
The devil's music began anew.
Before the disbelieving eyes of the townsfolk, the one-shot, one-kill massacre continued.
Ten seconds. The fifteen riders who had made it within 100 yards were all cut down.
The path into town narrowed here, and the press of bodies and panicked horses created a bottleneck, slowing the charge even further.
Spurred on by Henry's god-like display, the lawmen and militia finally broke from their shock and opened fire.
A volley from forty rifles ripped into the front ranks of the outlaws, dropping another dozen men.
The remaining twenty riders, now over 200 yards back, pulled hard on their reins, fighting to halt their momentum and turn their terrified horses to flee.
Henry loaded another four rounds, then swapped his rifle for a fresh one again.
As the last of the outlaws turned to run, his soul-stealing rifle spoke fifteen more times.
When the shooting finally stopped, only eight riders had made it past the 400-yard mark, galloping for their lives into the wilderness.
Henry slung his rifle over his back and strode toward the field of fallen men. As he passed Pete, he tossed him the empty "One of One Thousand" rifle.
"Hold this for me," he said, not breaking stride.
He drew both Colt 1878 revolvers from his hips as he walked.
He moved through the wounded, and whether they were groaning or silent, he gave each of them another bullet.
He emptied the twelve rounds from his two revolvers, then drew his single-action Colt and continued the grim work.
When he reached the man who had dodged his first shot—the leader—he put the final bullet into his neck. A fountain of blood erupted three feet into the air. The man's head was nearly severed from his body.
Henry knelt and opened the man's bulging money pouch.
Thankfully, the bullet that had torn through his torso had just missed it, leaving the contents intact.