After all, Henry had joined the ranks of the wealthy at such a young age, and with his extraordinary abilities, his options were nearly limitless.
If they let him slip away, the town committee would become a laughingstock in polite society—unable to even retain a remarkable talent born and raised in their own town.
With all business concluded, Henry would be officially sworn in as the new Sheriff the following morning.
The meeting ended close to 7:30 PM. Mayor William invited Henry to his manor for dinner, and Henry gladly accepted.
Deputy Ronald McKinley had been quiet for the entire meeting, only offering a few platitudes when discussing the outlaws' motives. The moment the meeting was adjourned, he hurried back to his own house.
His wife and children lived at Dwyer Manor, the McKinley family estate five miles out of town. He lived here alone.
Back at his house, Ronald took out a sheet of letterhead and began to write, his pen flying across the page. Just as he finished, the doorbell rang. It was James and the other two men, right on time.
Ronald handed the sealed letter to James. "Take this to the patriarch, Sean, at Dwyer Manor."
The three men immediately returned to the Sheriff's stable, saddled their horses, and rode hard for the McKinley estate.
Mayor William's manor was a masterpiece of Victorian architecture.
Nearly every part of the house was exquisitely detailed, from the intricate woodwork and ornate staircases to the stained glass and decorative trim. The manor boasted steep, gabled roofs, bay windows, a rounded turret, and a grand front porch.
It incorporated Gothic elements with its pointed arches, while the exterior walls were clad in fish-scale shingles. Finely detailed pillars supported the porch, giving the entire building the feel of a meticulously carved sculpture.
Inside, the manor was decorated with natural wood, and the furniture was all of European design.
Since the dinner was arranged on short notice, it was an informal affair. And besides, this was the American frontier, not an English lord's estate; the dining etiquette was far from strict.
As a child, Henry had often come here to eat with his grandfather. He'd privately called the mayor "Grandpa William." He was familiar with the place, and tonight felt like a family gathering.
In truth, if not for William's favor, a common officer like Henry would never have received such a massive reward of $24,000, no matter how heroic his deeds.
The meal was a feast of eight courses, including appetizers, main dishes, and dessert.
Only William, his wife Mikayla, and their two youngest grandchildren were present. The grandson, Frank, was seven, and the granddaughter, Janice, was ten.
William opened a bottle of French Burgundy, a Premier Cru AOC, and the couple drank with Henry. William was sixty-four, and his wife, Mikayla, was a year his senior. She had always been very fond of Henry.
Their eldest granddaughter, Alice, was only a year younger than him. Back when Henry's grandfather was still alive, the families were close, and Henry and Alice had been childhood friends.
But four years ago, in June of 1876, just after Henry turned sixteen, his grandfather passed away, and he had rarely visited the manor since.
That summer, Alice had left to attend a private girls' high school in New York where her parents lived, and the two had never seen each other again.
The conversation, as it often does, began with people they held in common.
"Alice will be back at the beginning of next month for a fortnight," William said with a smile. "She's just been accepted to Smith College. Classes start in two months, at the beginning of September."
"I remember when we were kids, her dream was always to attend one of the Seven Sisters colleges," Henry said with genuine admiration. "Congratulations to her, she's truly brilliant."
Mikayla looked at Henry with a kind, grandmotherly affection. "You are all good, brilliant children. Henry, you must promise to visit me more often, just like you used to. Can you do that?"
"Of course, Grandma Mikayla," Henry replied instantly.
"Henry," Janice piped up, "is it true you killed a hundred bandits today?"
Henry looked at the small, doll-like girl and gave her a warm nod. "It's true. If you ever get into trouble, just tell them you're my little sister and see who dares to cross you."
Janice let out a laugh like silver bells. "I'll remember that, Henry! Can you warn little Blake for me tomorrow at noon? He's always getting my friend Kent's clothes dirty on purpose."
"Why doesn't Kent warn Blake himself?" Henry asked gently.
"He tries, but Blake doesn't listen," Janice said with a sigh. "Kent is two years younger, and much smaller."
Henry noticed William and Mikayla watching with amused smiles. He gathered that the children were all taught together by a private tutor hired by the town's prominent families.
"My warnings usually involve a gun," Henry said, his own smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Janice, do you want me to fire my gun to scare Blake?"
Janice shook her head quickly.
"So," Henry continued, his tone shifting, "either Kent needs to fight back himself—win or lose, it doesn't matter, so long as he shows he's not to be trifled with."
"Or, he needs to write down every single time Blake bullies him in a diary. Then, when the time is right, he can pay it all back in one go."
"In this world, in the West, a man can only rely on himself. The sooner a person learns that lesson, the better."
William raised his glass in a toast, and Henry quickly met it with his own.
"You're right about that, Henry. A man can only rely on himself," William said, downing half his glass. He set it down and continued, "But that 'self' should include the members of one's own family, those who share the same blood."
He looked Henry in the eye. "Henry, we both have the same noble blood flowing in our veins, from the same homeland. We are natural allies."
"You're absolutely right, Grandpa William," Henry agreed.
He recalled his grandfather telling him that their family, the Bruces, could be traced back to the Scottish hero-king, Robert the Bruce. Royal blood. The Sinclairs, likewise, were an ancient and noble Scottish house.
Of course, Henry's branch of the family was a minor offshoot of a minor offshoot, long since fallen from grace. His grandfather's dying wish was simply for him to live a good life and have a family of his own. He'd heard the Bruce family had vast holdings in Canada and India, but that had nothing to do with him.
Still, his bloodline would make him easily accepted by America's upper class. The English, Scottish, German, and certain Irish families who first arrived in America were the only ones they considered truly their own. The Native Americans? They were just savages.
Though Henry's memories had merged, the soul of Zhang Tianyuan still considered himself just that—a descendant of the dragon. This body may have been a fringe member of the so-called "blue-blood" aristocracy, but that didn't change who he was.
However, that wouldn't stop him from using it to his advantage, to build a better life for himself and for those he chose to protect.