It was nearly 9 PM. Aside from the four saloons, most of the shops in town were shuttered, their doors and windows tightly shut.
The town had no streetlights. Only the wealthier homes had gas lamps mounted by their front doors, casting small pools of light into the oppressive darkness.
Henry slipped through the shadows with ease, arriving at Ronald McKinley's house. A gas lamp hung by his door as well, and the windows were brightly lit.
The front door was ajar, and the faint murmur of voices drifted out from within.
Still busy this late?
Henry paused in the darkness, considering. He decided to act immediately. For all he knew, the men inside were plotting against him at this very moment.
And if he was wrong? Well, that was just their bad luck.
He checked the arsenal in his storage space, then silently crept up the front steps. With a firm, steady pressure, his right hand pushed the door open, and he slipped inside.
The soft creak of the hinges was enough. The four men in the living room—Ronald and his three cronies, James included—whipped their heads around in unison.
Two throwing knives appeared in Henry's hands as if from thin air. With a vicious flick of his wrists, he sent them flying.
Fueled by his enhanced strength, the knives crossed the ten-meter distance in a blur, sinking deep into the throats of Ronald and James, who were directly facing him. The looks of shock on their faces froze, becoming permanent masks.
Henry's hands moved again, and two more knives found the throats of the other two men.
Again. And again.
In four fluid motions, he sent eight knives flying, crisscrossing the room like deadly chopsticks, each finding a home in the necks of his targets.
He ignored the sounds of their desperate, gurgling attempts to breathe, their hands instinctively clawing at their necks. He calmly shut the door, then walked over to the coffee table in front of Ronald. He picked up a letter, tore open the envelope, and began to read.
It was a reply from Sean McKinley, the patriarch of the family, sent from Dwyer Manor.
The letter confirmed Sean's approval of Ronald's plan. At 6 AM the next morning, just as the sun was rising, Sean would dispatch a team of gunmen to attack a farmstead eight miles from town.
The farmstead was home to seventeen families, all of German and Scottish descent. Ninety-six people in total, including twenty-eight battle-hardened men—all veterans of European wars who had come to the West to seek their fortunes.
They had been settled there for nearly a decade, a thriving community. Several of them had been good friends of the Mayor and Henry's grandfather.
The main branch of the McKinley family was sending an entire company of cavalry—182 riders, armed with two six-barreled Gatling guns. They were the force originally meant to suppress the outlaw mercenaries. Sean was adding another twenty of his own gunmen to their ranks, bringing the total to 202, plus the Gatling guns. Against such a force, the farmstead's fierce defenders would stand no chance.
The plan was to leave a few women and older children alive to report the massacre to the Sheriff's office. Then, the cavalry would lie in wait in the hills and valleys along the road, ready to ambush Henry and his posse when they rode out.
It was a death trap. Henry and any man who rode with him would be annihilated.
Ruthless, Henry thought. He now knew for certain: Ronald never intended for him to be sworn in as Sheriff at 9 AM.
By now, all four men had bled out, their lives gifting Henry three new grey pearls and one white pearl, this one pulsing with a skill.
He decided not to absorb the white pearl just yet. He might need its healing properties in the fight to come. Grey pearls could only fix minor issues. Besides, absorbing it now would only upgrade one of his LV 1 skills, which wouldn't be a significant help at the moment.
Henry stored the four bodies, acquiring four more Colt 1873 revolvers and 120 rounds of ammunition.
Using his newly acquired tracking skills, he began to search the house for hidden compartments. While not his specialty, his powers of observation were now incredibly sharp.
He found it under a desk in the second-floor study: a secret panel hiding $5,255 in cash.
Ronald had been good at skimming, it seemed. Even under Bryan's watchful eye, he'd managed to get rich. In a gold rush town, there was always money to be made.
Henry happily deposited the cash into his storage space, along with another prize he found in the master bedroom: a Winchester 1873 "One of One Thousand" rifle, identical to Bryan's.
Only 136 of these rifles were ever made, and two of them were in this small town. He'd never seen Ronald show it off.
The man was a damn snake.
Muttering to himself, Henry carefully slipped out of the house and back into the shadows. He hadn't expected such a profitable night.
His initial idea had been simple: kill Ronald McKinley.
As the only other official lawman in town, with seniority over Henry and the backing of the McKinley family, Ronald was guaranteed to be a thorn in his side. He was a liability, a man who would only cause trouble. Therefore, he had no reason to exist.
Henry already suspected Ronald was involved in Bryan's ambush; he was the one who stood to gain the most. As for proof? Henry wasn't a judge. He didn't need it.
And now, he had all the proof in the world.
As for James and the other two… that was just bad luck. In the brutal, savage West, when you got caught up in the affairs of powerful men, a stray bullet was a common way to die.
Unfortunately, the letter didn't explain why the McKinleys were making such a bold move. But that didn't matter. Henry was confident that Sean McKinley, the patriarch of this branch of the family, would be telling him everything he wanted to know very soon.
Henry slipped back into his own house, silent as a ghost.
It was still early, not yet 10 PM. The first thing he did was take a hot bath. Mayor William, when he founded the town, had planned for the long term, installing a proper sewer system and water pipes that drew fresh water from the nearby South Platte River.
Clean and refreshed, Henry looked at his reflection in the washroom mirror. He was a handsome man—blond hair, blue eyes, fair skin, with features as sharp and defined as a classical Greek statue. He bore a striking resemblance to the actor who had played Superman in his past life.
It was a shame the original Henry had deliberately hidden his face behind a thick beard, making himself look seven or eight years older.
He immediately took out a razor and, after a dozen minutes of careful work, shaved it all away.
He changed into a loose-fitting cotton union suit, went to the kitchen, and heated a large copper kettle of water. He poured himself a cup, then stored the rest of the hot water in his space.
He sat down on the calfskin sofa in the living room, sipping the warm water as he planned his next move.