Henry checked the outlaw leader's pouch. Just as he'd thought, it was stuffed with cash. He instantly transferred the contents to his storage space, then pulled out a few chocolates and candies from the same space, placed them in the pouch, and pulled the drawstring tight.
He unholstered the man's custom single-action revolver, picked up his fallen Winchester 1873, and continued his grim march.
With his back to the crowd, he swapped his own Colt revolvers into the storage space, using the dead leader's rifle to continue his work.
After emptying its twelve rounds, he reloaded as he walked. A dozen seconds later, the rifle began to roar once more.
Henry operated on a simple principle: every outlaw on the ground got another bullet, either in the neck or the chest.
The booming of guns, the screaming of horses, the acrid smell of gunpowder, and the thick, coppery stench of blood—it all made Henry's blood sing. This was the taste of freedom. This was what it felt like to be truly, terrifyingly alive.
Yet his mind was perfectly calm. He put down the wounded with a steady hand, like a farmer giving a final, firm pat to the soil around a newly planted tree.
By the time he had finished his work along the 400-meter stretch of road, nearly ten minutes had passed.
The crowd at the town entrance watched, utterly speechless. They had just seen Henry fight like a vengeful god, and now they were watching him clean up the battlefield with the meticulous, dispassionate air of a farmer harvesting wheat.
Mayor William had arrived at the entrance as well, his face grim.
Everyone was thinking the same thing: Henry, the quiet boy with the gentle face, was ruthless.
Fighting a battle was one thing, but this was another. In civilized places, there were rules about not killing or torturing prisoners.
But Henry had taken no prisoners.
How many men could look upon a field of bodies and fire a hundred rounds into them without flinching?
The sight silenced the once-chaotic crowd. They stood in quiet awe, their eyes fixed on the lone, cold, and powerful figure on the road.
The tough-talking James felt a cold sweat bead on his forehead as he remembered his suicidal offer to duel Henry just minutes earlier. In his heart, he gave a silent thanks to the Mayor, and to the very outlaws who had just been slaughtered.
Finally, the harvest was complete. Henry walked back to the town entrance and took his rifle back from Pete.
"Mayor," he said, his voice even. "There are still more than twenty of our men's bodies and over fifty horses out at Coyote Hills."
William nodded, immediately dispatching a man with a wagon and a dozen riders to retrieve them.
Henry mounted up and began the long task of rounding up the seventy-odd scattered horses.
All told, seventy-eight outlaws had been killed. Only three of them had not been by his hand. Despite his best efforts, those unlucky three had been caught in the townsfolk's initial volley and killed instantly. He hadn't been fast enough to claim them.
It felt like he'd missed out on a fortune.
Three of the horses had broken their legs in the chaos and had to be put down. The remaining men from the town came out to help with the cleanup.
It was over an hour later when everything had been accounted for and gathered. The party sent to Coyote Hills had returned by then as well.
A strange, conflicted atmosphere fell over the town.
The families of the fallen lawmen were shrouded in grief, their homes filled with weeping. But the rest of the town was buzzing, high on the thrill of a spectacular victory.
Though it was only 6 PM, the town's four saloons were already packed. A few cowboys were bragging about their own small parts in the fight, but most of the talk was about Henry—about the impossible speed and accuracy of his gun.
For the moment, none of it concerned him. Mayor William had summoned him to a meeting at the town hall.
The Mayor also served as the town's judge, holding both executive and judicial power. He was, for all intents and purposes, the king of Frisco.
Sheriff Bryan's election by the "town committee" had been a mere formality; it was William who had recommended—or rather, appointed—him.
But in his twenty-two years of leadership, the people had grown accustomed to the Mayor's rule. He was generally fair and just, and there were few complaints. The arrival of the McKinley and Palermo families over the last decade had challenged his authority, but he had managed to keep things under control.
The meeting included Henry, Ronald McKinley, the Mayor, and the six members of the town committee—four of whom were William's loyalists. The committee was made up of the town's elite: mine owners, wealthy ranchers, and financiers.
The first topic was the motive for the attack. Why would a gang of outlaws launch a direct assault on the town?
After several minutes of discussion, they had no answers. They had killed 122 outlaws and only eight had escaped, but they had no one left to question.
Henry's hand had been too thorough.
The committee members, apart from Ronald who had only arrived five years ago, had watched Henry grow up. They couldn't believe that the quiet, reserved boy had become so ferocious.
He killed men like he was mowing grass.
But they couldn't fault him for it. The dead were outlaws, after all, and it was a long-held tradition among the powerful that the victor is never questioned.
Besides, they would need his protection in the days to come.
Finally, William spoke. "Our own department will continue to investigate, but I will also contact the Pinkerton Detective Agency to look into this matter."
The next item on the agenda was the division of the spoils.
The loot from Coyote Hills—horses, saddles, and weapons—was valued at around $6,000. The bounties on those outlaws added up to another $7,000, for a total of $13,000.
Henry immediately proposed that he would not take a single cent. All of it, he said, should be given to the families of the fallen lawmen as compensation. He could afford to be generous; he had already secured most of the cash and weapons for himself.
The committee agreed. William finalized the payments: $500 for each of the nineteen temporary deputies, $1,500 for each of the four deputies, and $3,000 for Sheriff Bryan's family.
The second cache of loot, from the battle at the town entrance, was valued at around $30,000. The bounties for this group were worth another $10,000, for a total of $40,000.
Henry had personally killed over 70% of the enemy, but considering the number of townsfolk who had participated and the cleanup effort involved, a negotiation was in order.
With Henry's approval, a deal was struck. He would receive 60% of the total, or $24,000. 30%, or $12,000, would be divided among the other combatants. The final 10%, $4,000, would go to the town coffers, which meant the town only had to cover an additional $1,500 for the compensation fund.
These were, of course, preliminary estimates. The final figures would depend on the liquidation of the assets over the next few days.
The final topic of the meeting was the election of a new Sheriff.
The McKinley family's committee member pushed hard for Ronald, but the other six members, including the Mayor, all voted for Henry.
In the untamed West, strength was everything. And transcendent strength was absolute. Henry's performance had been undeniable, witnessed by dozens. There was no room for debate.
The committee also shared a common fear: if they didn't choose him, he might simply leave town, taking his incredible skill with him.