In the town's four saloons, the bookies who had taken bets on the duel were on the verge of tears.
The vast majority of the townsfolk had bet on Henry to win. Even after the bookies had desperately lowered the odds to 1.4 to 1, it hadn't mattered. Henry's performance over the past few days had been too astonishing, and the locals were naturally biased toward their hometown hero.
Thankfully, a few of the older residents who knew of Barrett's legendary reputation had bet on him, and some others, tempted by the high payout, had bet on both men dying. It was just enough to soften the blow, but the losses were still staggering.
And when you lose money, you find a way to make it back.
The story of the duel was immediately packaged and sold through the saloon's intelligence network, spreading from there to the black market and the private networks of the great families. The news traveled far faster than any official report.
At Dwyer Manor, Sean McKinley received the intelligence and felt as if he were attending his own funeral.
In the span of two days, Henry had now publicly annihilated three separate groups of assassins: the first ten, then six, and now the twenty who had ambushed him during the duel, along with the legendary "Blue Death" himself.
Sean was not a man who underestimated his enemies. He knew Henry would have already figured out that the McKinley family was behind it all. Their initial plan had been sloppy, relying on a swift, overwhelming victory and Ronald taking over the Sheriff's office to cover their tracks. With the plan's failure, their intentions and personnel were now dangerously exposed.
A knot of pure terror tightened in Sean's chest.
Knowing Henry's decisive and ruthless nature, he knew that once the young Sheriff was ready to act, Dwyer Manor would be his first target.
Sean could have never imagined that he, a man with forty-eight cavalry guards, would one day live in fear of a single man's attack. And that was with another thirty-six of the family's riders stationed nearby.
But he was afraid. There was no denying it. And he was certain Henry wasn't working alone; he must have other master gunslingers with him.
Men of wealth and power have far more to fear from death than the common man.
Sean's only hope was that Henry's youth and his position as Sheriff would make him hesitate, that he wouldn't be so ruthless as to wipe them out completely.
But hope was not a strategy. He immediately sent twelve of his guards to escort his son, daughter, and three grandchildren back to the safety of Denver. Then, he sent a telegram to Brendan, informing him of Barrett's defeat and requesting that the cavalry from the nearby camp be consolidated at Dwyer Manor.
In Denver, Brendan McKinley also received the news. He was shocked, but his confidence was not as shaken as Sean's. He was in the state capital, protected by the Colorado National Guard, not some backwater mountain town.
He understood Sean's fear. Consolidating their forces was a sound tactical decision; it would prevent Henry from picking them off one by one. He approved the request.
For now, his hopes rested on Kahlenbeck and the other top-tier assassins that his ten-thousand-dollar bounty would inevitably attract.
At Randy Manor, seven or eight miles from Frisco, Vito, the patriarch of the Palermo family, received the same intelligence report.
"Astonishing," he murmured. "Continue to monitor the conflict between Henry and the McKinleys. And be careful. Do not let Henry know we are watching him. I would rather have no intelligence at all than be exposed."
"Understood, sir," his man, David, replied. "It's a shame we weren't able to place any of our men among his new recruits."
Vito smiled. "If Henry were so easily fooled, he wouldn't be worth our attention. It doesn't matter. We are in the shadows for now. There is no need to rush."
The news continued to spread, reaching the fifty-odd farms and dozens of mines that surrounded Frisco. Ambitious men and adventurers began to plot, seeing a chance to profit from the coming chaos. Henry's legend, forged in the blood of "The Blue Death," was beginning to be told across the territory. His skill was praised, but his ruthlessness—the fact that no man who faced his guns was left alive—was what people truly remembered.
Back in Frisco, the town was in a state of celebration. Over half the adult population, including nearly every member of the Sheriff's department, had won a considerable sum of money betting on the duel. The saloons had been packed since early afternoon, with cheers of "To Sheriff Henry!" ringing out every few minutes.
Today was, unofficially, "Henry Day."
This was the scene that greeted Billy the Kid when he arrived in the late afternoon. He was bewildered. He had hoped to slip into a quiet saloon for a drink to clear his head.
He hesitated, but considering he was in a remote mountain town nearly five hundred miles from New Mexico, he figured he was safe enough. He pushed through the swinging doors of the Aurora Saloon and made his way through the throng to the bar.
"Hey, friend! This one's on me," a large man next to him said, sliding a glass of whiskey toward him.
Billy was completely baffled. This was a first. The custom of the West was for the newcomer to buy the first round for the man next to him, not the other way around. But he wasn't one to refuse a free drink. He downed the whiskey in one go.
Huh. It's actually real.
It wasn't the best he'd ever had, but it wasn't the rotgut he'd been served yesterday morning either.
Since the man had been so generous, Billy returned the favor, buying a round of bourbon for the men on either side of him. The mood quickly became friendly, and through the boisterous conversation, Billy learned the reason for the town's celebration, and he heard the incredible tales of Sheriff Henry's exploits.
He knew the name Barrett Hicks well. The man who had taught him how to shoot, his former employer, had been a Confederate soldier who had lived under the shadow of Barrett's reputation. It was after the war that he had fled to a ranch in New Mexico, defeated and humbled.