The saloon reached a dead silence. The only sound was the wet gurgle of whiskey spilling out of shot-up bottles. That, and the labored, ragged breathing of weary gunmen hiding behind tables, waiting for me to make the next move.

  Near a pile of kindling that used to be a card table, I saw Edward Lucas. He was a former deputy turned bounty hunter. He’d heard the legends of battling a Reclaimer, but being in a war zone with one had turned his mouth to ash. His hands shook as he fumbled to reload his six-shooter. Across from him, tucked behind a pool table, was his wife and partner, Kelly. There was pure, unadulterated fear in her eyes as she watched me. To them, I wasn't a man; I was a dance of death, a pianist tapping out a funeral march on the keys of my Colts.

  I caught Edward’s eye and gave a slow shake of my head—a silent warning not to move. They didn't listen. Before they could break cover, Caleb Grimsby’s voice cracked through the silence.

  "Corris Lee! You still alive?"

  "Like the day I was born!"

  I rolled from under a three-legged pool table, the balls careening across the floor like marble teeth. I popped up to survey the damage. It was catastrophic. Portraits lay decimated, red curtains were moth-eaten by savage bullet holes, and bodies lay permanently to rest in the sawdust.

  The customers lucky enough to be alive cowered on the floor. Most were smart—they tossed their pistols aside. Others, driven by haste and terror, unloaded their irons at the sound of my boot spurs clinking against the wood. I spun my pistols once before easing the Stormwalkers back into their holsters. The survivors wanted to keep that label.

  I walked up to the Gatling gun. Dune was gone. He’d vanished the moment the heavy cannon locked on the last round. Dune was management, not a gunfighter. He prized his life over his post. Smart man.

  Dust and smoke created a miasma that lingered in the air, mixing with the smell of spilled rye. Caleb’s boys were still there, huddled in the dark corners. They were paid handsomely and cut from a different cloth than the drifters. They needed more persuasion to lay their guns down. I was more than willing to oblige.

  "I gotta hand it to you, Corris Lee," Caleb called out. "Ice runs through your veins."

  "The day is still young, little brother.”

  "You’re sticking your nose in a family blood feud. That comes with consequences."

  "Doesn't everything?"

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  I knew the shooters in this Shadetown were obligated by greed to take me—dead or alive. My bounty was a "life-changer," a prize sought by the most ruthless protectors of the Grimsby line.

  “Let me walk, Corris Lee," Caleb said, his voice dropping. "You don't have a quarrel with me.”

  “You do. Because Asher said you do.” I said.

  Caleb went silent. The mere mention of Asher Nagy changed the temperature in the room. Caleb Grimsby was a dead man, and we both knew it.

  "What's it gonna be, little brother? Skin or skinned?" I pressed him. "Like a wolf shedding his coat, there’s a measure of forgiveness at the end of a malicious road. Give it up."

  "Blood out or bled out, Caleb?"

  Caleb Grimsby said nothing.

  The room filled with the mumbles of desperate men. Opportunistic men. Greedy men.

  "Give me something, Caleb."

  "I’ll do you one better. I’ll give you the who. Do we have a deal?"

  Caleb dealt his cards straight. Always had.

  "Lay down your Colors!" I shouted.

  That was my hand. If he laid down his jacket, his men would turn on him. In the Grimsby family, marriage and blood are the same. You never lay your colors down. If he did, he became a Yellow Jacket—a coward’s brand. Every headhunter in the Mesa would be looking to skin him alive for the blasphemy.

  "You violated Shadetown Law," Caleb spat. "They'll skin your black ass by noon tomorrow."

  "They’re welcome to try. I’ve got more ammo than they have souls."

  "God damn you, Corris! We were brothers! You don't know the whole story."

  "Did Asher know the whole story?"

  "I wasn't involved with that! You know I wasn't!"

  "But you were there, Caleb. You delivered that boy. His blood is on your hands."

  "Eye for eye, Corris Lee. Nagy started it first."

  I paused. "The Judge started it? “Tell me how."

  "You don't know. The Nagys and Grimsbys famiy. Let me walk, and I’ll tell you what the Judge won't. I'll tell you why he sent you and not his own dogs."

  "Pope?"

  "Yes, sir. Why not send Pope? Why did he want you to break parlay in a Shadetown?"

  "I ain't Pope."

  "Exactly. You ain't Pope. Let me walk, and I'll talk."

  The hair stood up on the back of my neck—that primal instinct from the savanna. When a predator lies in the brush, you don't trust it. But Caleb was right about one thing: Pope was the Judge's premier tracker. He had the map-skins. He had the army. Why send a lone Reclaimer into a hive of hornets like Lethe? Why did Abby and Asher risk everything to put me on the trail?

  The saloon windows turned a blooming, bruised red. It was the Shift’s mark—a sign we were close to the epicenter of the Plague where the world had transformed from the Hostile West to the Dark West. In this place, honest instinct keeps you alive. Prayer doesn't hurt either.

  The Marshal’s Office

  While the Tin Ten smoldered, Travis Dune was running for his life. His arms were flailing in as he scuttled across the red rocks of Lethe. His destination? Marshall Atwater’s office. He burst through the heavy doors of the Justice Hall, tracking red mud across the green shag carpet of Marshal Tracy Atwater’s office.

  Atwater was nursing his second cup of coffee. His office was Spartan—dark wood, gun racks, and local maps dotted the walls. The Marshal was a lean, rugged man in a navy suit, his face a mask of cold apathy. He had a hawkish nose and eyes that sat recessed like a vulture’s.

  "Tracking mud, Mr. Dune?" Atwater asked, his voice a slow, dangerous drawl. "What has you running like your mama called you for supper?"

  "It's Corr... it's Corris Lee," Dune stammered, doubled over and clutching his knees.

  Stu Pinton, one of Atwater’s "hounds," stood nearby, casually drying a straight razor. "Damn, boy. Did you bathe in gunpowder before you got here?"

  "I... I used Betty," Dune gasped, referring to the Gatling gun. "The Tin Ten... it's real bad, Mr. Atwater."

  Atwater didn't look up. He began stirring his coffee with a long, steel letter-opener. The rhythmic, metallic clink-clink seemed to mesmerize Dune. It wasn't magic, but every man in Lethe knew Atwater had killed men with that very stirrer.

  "Alright, Mr. Dune,"

  Atwater said softly. "Pull up your britches and tell me everything that happened."