It wasn't that Henry was cruel. It was that every enemy who had witnessed him fighting alone had to die.
His feat was too unreasonable to be believed. A man could try to explain it away—perhaps Henry had pre-positioned a dozen fully loaded rifles—but it was too much of a stretch.
Besides, these men had been on their way to commit a massacre. This was simply their reckoning.
After he had finished executing the last of the surrendered men, Henry began to walk slowly back down the hill. As he passed each body, he would attempt to store it.
If he couldn't, he would put another bullet in the man's chest, which would immediately make the corpse "storable."
He didn't actually take the bodies, however. He was only interested in looting them.
A dozen minutes later, the forty-six riders who had escaped the slaughter arrived back at their camp. Ten of them were Sean McKinley's personal men; they immediately rode for Dwyer Manor, two miles away.
A short while later, Sean, a man in his fifties, listened to the riders' report. He felt as if the sky was falling.
He had been against a direct attack on the Frisco Sheriff's department from the start. But Ronald had been useless, with only a handful of supporters inside.
As for going to war with Mayor William and the Sinclair family, Sean had been in full agreement. The prize was too great. Once the Sinclairs learned of the massive gold deposit, they would never share it. With their power, they could easily swallow the entire mine for themselves.
Pressured by the hardline stance of the main family branch in Denver, Sean had executed their plan to the letter. He'd used his old connections to hire the infamous "Mad Wolf" Michael Doran and his gang, combining them with the hundred riders of the Douglas Gang, to take out Sheriff Bryan.
Sean knew Bryan's history. He knew what he was capable of. But even the greatest warrior is still just a man. Trapped in a kill box, surrounded by over a hundred guns, his death should have been a certainty.
Who could have predicted this? Michael's arrogance had split the ambush force, and yes, Bryan was dead, but then this… this Henry had appeared out of nowhere.
And this Henry was so powerful he had single-handedly annihilated all of the outlaws. When Sean first heard the news, he thought it was a myth, a tall tale that even the most outlandish dime novel wouldn't dare to print.
He knew all about Henry. The boy was an open book, born and raised in Frisco, always a quiet, well-behaved kid. His only remarkable quality was his noble lineage, but that branch of the family had long since faded. He'd become even more ordinary after his grandfather, the former Sheriff, had died four years ago.
How could he be this powerful? How could a boy hide that kind of strength from an entire town for so long?
Regardless, one thing was certain: Henry was undoubtedly a ruthless man. And the blood feud between him and the McKinley family was now irreconcilable.
That was why Sean had approved the second ambush. He'd even committed nearly a third of his personal guard to the operation. When you strike, you strike to kill. That had always been his creed. Besides, the farmstead was a Sinclair outpost that had to be eliminated anyway.
But now, another catastrophic, unthinkable failure. This time, he had lost half of his own guard, including two of his own nephews. The pain was a physical blow.
To be ambushed by a dozen master gunslingers… had the Sinclair family figured out the plan so quickly and launched a counter-attack?
Though his mind was a storm of grief and confusion, Sean knew he had to act fast to mitigate the damage.
He immediately sent a man to send a telegram to the main family branch in Denver, eighty-four miles away. The Frisco telegraph office wouldn't open for another two hours. Not waiting for a reply, he dispatched twenty of his riders to join the thirty-six at the temporary camp, forming a new force of sixty-six.
At the same time, he sent two men to Ronald's house to see what was going on. The leak, he suspected, had come from there.
The sixty-six riders would then return to the battlefield to assess the situation.
An hour later, Henry had finished his looting.
Aside from the wallets, pistols, and rifles, he had also stored the two Gatling guns. He even picked out three high-quality saddles for himself.
He mounted a random horse, rode back to the top of the hill to retrieve his own police-issue steed, and then started back toward town.
He left the 156 remaining horses scattered across the plains. They were now a liability. This cavalry unit hadn't actually committed their planned atrocity yet, and they belonged to the powerful McKinley family. The horses were too hot to handle.
As for the unsigned letter from Sean to Ronald, it was useless as evidence. And since he had completely thwarted their plan, proving their intent would be nearly impossible.
When dealing with a deep-rooted family like the McKinleys, with their tangled web of connections, you had only two options: wipe them out completely, or pretend you know nothing. Dragging them into a courtroom was a pointless exercise that would only expose his own hand and invite political retaliation he couldn't afford.
Besides, he wanted nothing to do with Deputy Ronald McKinley's disappearance.
He found a small grove of trees by the road and changed into a fresh shirt, vest, riding pants, and boots.
It was just past 7 AM when he returned his horse to the Sheriff's stable.
Henry walked briskly back to his house, took a quick shower to wash the lingering scent of gunpowder from his hair, and then headed to a nearby restaurant for a hearty breakfast.
Other than the sentry in the watchtower and the stable hand, no one knew he had left town and returned. And for the time being, no one would dare question him. If they did, he would simply play dumb. This was America; the accuser had the burden of proof.
And who would be foolish enough to try and gather evidence against the new Sheriff on his own turf?
Henry welcomed them to try. They would make for fresh "release" material.
As he enjoyed a bacon sandwich and hot coffee, he focused his attention on his internal status.
His progress bar was now at 47.3%. He had killed 156 riders, many of them elites. The McKinley family was going to be feeling this loss for a long time.
He knew his success was due to his tactics: the element of surprise, targeting the commanders, and deliberately sowing chaos. Even so, he had been hit five times, saved only by his white pearl husks.
He now had 2 green pearls, 50 white, and 134 grey. Two of the green and six of the white pulsed with skills. He did a quick calculation. His total power was now equivalent to 404 grey pearls.
The "+" sign next to his Constitution was glowing.
But there was no hurry. He had to be sworn in as Sheriff first. He would wait until noon to upgrade.
Meanwhile, the sixty-six McKinley riders returned to the battlefield. The ambusher was long gone. Their fallen comrades had been stripped of all weapons and valuables.
The warhorses were scattered across the plains; a dozen were missing entirely.
And the two Gatling guns had vanished.
After gathering their dead, the sixty-six riders collected the horses and returned to their camp. As for the farmstead, with their current numbers and shattered morale, they no longer had the strength to attack. For now, they could only retreat.