Six meters away, the three men at the card table dropped their hands and shot to their feet, their own revolvers clearing leather.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three shots rang out in a single, deafening report. The pistols were blasted from the men's hands, sending them staggering back, howling in pain.
The bartender's eyes went wide. He knew who he was dealing with now. He quickly pushed the ten-cent coin back across the bar.
"We have the real stuff, I swear," the fat bartender stammered, sweat beading on his forehead. "It's on the house."
Billy the Kid's eyes grew colder.
"I have information!" the bartender blurted out, his voice cracking. "About a high-value bounty! Ten thousand dollars!"
Billy's expression shifted. He slowly holstered his revolver. "Pour two glasses of the real bourbon," he said. "Then talk."
The fat man fumbled for the keys to the cabinet below the bar, unlocked it, and pulled out a fresh bottle of Maker's Mark. He poured two glasses with a trembling hand.
Billy downed the first glass in one go. The harsh, clean burn of the whiskey finally cleared his head. He gave the bartender a flat, dead-eyed stare that made the man's blood run cold.
"It's the Sheriff of Frisco, a gold rush town on the way to Denver," the bartender said quickly. "His name is Henry Bruce, and he…"
The more Billy heard, the brighter his eyes became. This was the opponent he had been dreaming of. A man who could stand against an army, who could kill six men in the blink of an eye.
Billy had been an orphan since he was twelve. The only warmth he had ever known was from his former employer, and since that man's death, his life had been without an anchor. He was adrift, never knowing what he might do from one moment to the next. Since his own gun skills had reached their peak a year ago, he had found no equal. He had faced down famed gunslingers and quickdraw artists, and they had all fallen before him.
The story of Henry Bruce ignited a spark in his dead heart. Only a duel with a true master could make him feel alive again.
He decided he would leave today. Frisco was only 172 miles away. If he paced himself, he could be there by tomorrow afternoon.
He picked up the second glass of bourbon and drained it.
Happy.
A rare, genuine smile spread across his face. The bartender, who had been watching him with crippling anxiety, felt a wave of relief.
Billy's right hand blurred to his hip.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
The bartender and the three card players all collapsed, a neat hole punched through each of their brows.
To be happy is to kill.
Anyone who might have recognized him had to die. He would allow no one to interfere with his coming, sacred duel.
Billy walked behind the bar, scooped up the handful of bills and coins from the register, and grabbed the half-empty bottle of bourbon. Then, he walked out of the saloon without a backward glance.
Back in Frisco, after checking the bounty lists, Henry confirmed that one of the outlaws he'd killed the night before had indeed been wanted in Denver. Since the warrant wasn't local, there was no need to report the incident.
"Pete," Henry said, finding his deputy, "I want you to go to Linda's place and stand guard. I have intel that suggests some outlaws might try to make a move on her and the children. If you see anything, fire a warning shot."
Pete's face went pale with anxiety. He rushed off toward Linda's house immediately.
"Luke, Maddy," Henry commanded the other two officers. "Go and notify the applicants. The shooting assessment will begin at 3 PM."
"Yes, Sheriff!" the two men said, and departed.
At that moment, in the town of Georgetown, twenty miles from Frisco, a train hissed to a stop.
A tall, thin man in a swallow-tailed suit and a silk top hat stepped gracefully onto the platform. He held an elegant walking stick in his left hand and a fine calfskin briefcase in his right.
This was Kahlenbeck, one of the most infamous assassins in the West. Very few people who had seen his true face lived to tell the tale. He had no regard for the cowboy's code of honor. His only creed was to shoot first, and he took immense pleasure in shooting his targets in the back when they least expected it.
He rented a carriage and set off for Frisco.
Meanwhile, at the Denver train station, a powerfully built, brown-haired man with graying temples stepped onto the platform.
"Mr. Barrett, welcome," a man from the McKinley family said, rushing to greet him. "Please, come with me. The boss is waiting."
In the McKinley manor, the family steward, Elendt, was giving his report to Brendan.
"Jesse James and John Gale are currently unreachable. Kahlenbeck has accepted the contract. Barrett is on his way to the manor now. He says he will not act until you return his keepsake."
"Furthermore, at least two groups of assassins have already made attempts on Henry. He killed them all, single-handedly, with two pistols. Our initial assessment is that he is a super-gunslinger, on the same level as Barrett or Billy the Kid."
"Is Barrett still on that level?" Brendan asked, a hint of doubt in his voice. "He hasn't been active for years."
"Twelve years ago, I personally witnessed him kill six men at forty feet with a Colt 1860 Army revolver," Elendt said respectfully. "Over the years, he has killed more than two hundred challengers. During the Civil War, he was a Union scout and spy of legendary renown. His skill with a gun was said to be far greater than even Sheriff Bryan's."
Brendan nodded. "Is there any way we can keep the keepsake? We can offer more money, other conditions."
"I do not believe so," Elendt replied. "Barrett has only ever given out five such keepsakes. The only two times he has acted in recent years were to retrieve them. Ours is the last one."
Brendan fell silent, stroking his chin in deep thought.
In Mayor William's study, the private investigator, Raphael, was making his own report.
"The assassins who attacked yesterday were all after the black market bounty on Henry's head. Ten thousand dollars is an incredibly high price."
"I expect killers of all kinds will be flocking here in the coming days."
"Can you trace who posted it?" William asked.
"Not yet, sir. But it's almost certainly the same people who were behind the first two attacks."
William considered this for a moment. "Do you think Henry knows about the bounty?"
"I heard that after he killed the assassins in the saloon last night, he had a private meeting with the owner, Drummond, that lasted over half an hour," Raphael replied. "I believe he knows. And as a top-tier gunslinger himself, he would have known those men were targeting him specifically."