Release Her! Nameless Gunslinger Said To Most Notorious Thugs In Deadwood.

…

The bartender, a balding man with a towel slung over his shoulder, slowly backed away from the bar, his hands raised in a placating gesture.

Swearengen, observing from the second-floor balcony, narrowed his eyes, his cigar glowing red in the dim light.

He recognized the walk of a man who had left a lot of corpses in his wake.

The stranger walked directly to the bar, never once looking up at the balcony.

He tossed a single, heavily worn silver dollar onto the mahogany counter.

“Whiskey,” the stranger said.

His voice was like grinding stones, deep, resonant, and devoid of any emotion.

The bartender hurriedly poured a glass of rye, his hands shaking so badly that amber liquid spilled onto the wood.

The stranger didn’t reach for the glass.

Instead, he tilted his head, his ears tuning out the murmur of the frightened patrons, listening intently to the muffled sounds coming from the rear of the establishment.

He heard the heavy thud of a fist hitting wood, followed by a sharp, terrified gasp.

The stranger slowly picked up the shot glass.

He didn’t drink.

He just stared at the amber liquid, the reflection of the saloon’s oil lamps dancing in the glass.

“Who’s in the back?” the stranger asked the bartender, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried across the dead silent room.

“Nobody you want to concern yourself with, mister,” the bartender stammered, glancing nervously up at Swearengen on the balcony.

“Just some of the boys conducting business.

” The stranger finally drank the whiskey in one smooth motion.

He set the glass down with a heavy, final clack.

“I’m making it my business.

” The stranger turned from the bar, his duster sweeping against his boots, and walked toward the heavy oak door leading to the back rooms.

“Hold on there, friend,” called out a burly miner standing up from a poker table, foolishly trying to earn favor with Swearengen’s crew.

He rested a hand on the grip of his pistol.

“You heard the man.

It’s private business.

” The stranger didn’t stop, nor did he look at the miner.

He simply kept walking.

As he passed the poker table, his right hand moved.

It was a blur, a motion so fast the human eye could barely track it.

The deafening roar of a gunshot shattered the silence of the saloon.

The miner screamed, dropping his pistol as he clutched his right hand.

The stranger hadn’t shot the man.

He’d shot the hammer cleanly off the man’s gun right as it sat in the holster.

The smell of sulfur and burnt powder instantly filled the room.

Nobody else moved.

The piano player slowly slid his hands off the keys and ducked beneath his stool.

The stranger reached the heavy oak door.

He didn’t bother turning the knob.

He lifted his heavy, spur-clad boot and kicked the door right at the lock.

The wood splintered with a violent crash, the door flying off its hinges and slamming into the wall of the back room.

Rufus Cobb spun around, his scarred face twisting in fury, his hand dropping to his weapon.

Zeke Farnum kept his gun pressed against Clementine’s head, using the terrified girl as a human shield.

His missing ear giving him a lopsided, deranged appearance.

The stranger stepped into the room, the smoke from his recently fired revolver still curling lazily around his thigh.

He looked at the bruised, tear-streaked face of Clementine, then shifted his gaze to the two thugs.

“You got 3 seconds to turn around and walk out that door, drifter,” Cobb snarled, his heavy revolver clearing its holster, leveling it at the stranger’s chest.

“You’re interrupting Gem business.

” The stranger stood perfectly still, his eyes locked onto Farnum, ignoring Cobb completely.

“Release her,” the nameless gunslinger said.

The words weren’t a plea.

They weren’t a negotiation.

They were an execution order, delayed only by the choice of the men standing in front of him.

Farnum let out a high-pitched, nervous laugh.

“You’re a long way from home, cowboy.

You don’t know who you’re messing with.

Swearengen owns this camp.

Now, back out before I paint this girl’s brains all over the ledger.

” The twist, however, didn’t come from the gunslinger.

It came from the girl.

Clementine, noticing Farnum’s momentary distraction, didn’t cower.

Her father had taught her that cornered animals survive by biting.

She stomped her heavy boot down with all her weight, the sharp heel crushing Farnum’s instep.

Farnum howled in pain, his grip on her hair loosening, the barrel of his gun wavering for a fraction of a second.

That fraction of a second was a lifetime for a man who lived by the gun.

Before Farnham could readjust and before Cobb could pull his trigger, the stranger moved.

His left hand fanned the hammer of his right revolver.

Two shots rang out in such rapid succession, they sounded almost like one continuous roar.

The first bullet struck Farnham’s heavy Colt revolver, shattering the cylinder and tearing the weapon from his mangled fingers, sending it spinning into the corner of the room.

Farnham screamed, falling back against the desk.

The second bullet took Cobb in his right shoulder, right at the joint, spinning the massive man around and throwing him to the floor before he could fire a single shot.

Clementine scrambled under the table, gasping for air, her hands covering her ears.

The room filled with thick blinding white gun smoke.

Farnham, clutching his bleeding broken hand, stared at the stranger in absolute horror.

The nameless man hadn’t even broken a sweat.

He calmly holstered his weapon, the click of the leather securing the iron sounding impossibly loud over Cobb’s groans of pain.

“I told you to release her,” the stranger said quietly, stepping over the threshold and pulling Clementine out from under the table.

“Swearingen will skin you alive for this,” Cobb gasped from the floor, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

“You’re a dead man, you hear me? A dead man.

” The stranger looked down at Cobb, his expression entirely devoid of pity.

“We’re all dead men.

Some of us just don’t know the date yet.

” He guided Clementine out of the back room, pushing her gently behind his broad back.

As they stepped back into the main saloon, the silence was absolute.

Dozens of men stared, their hands hovering near their belts, waiting for a signal.

Up on the balcony, Al Swearingen stepped out of the shadows, resting his hands on the wooden railing.

He looked down at the bleeding men in his back room, then locked eyes with the stranger.

The camp boss didn’t look angry.

He looked intrigued.

“You’ve made quite a mess of my establishment, stranger,” Swearingen called down, his voice smooth and dangerous.

“And you’ve taken something that belongs to me.

” The stranger stopped in the middle of the room, keeping his body positioned between the men in the saloon and the terrified girl behind him.

“She belongs to nobody,” the gunslinger replied, his voice carrying up to the rafters.

“And her land stays hers.

” Swearingen chuckled, a dry, raspy sound.

“A righteous man.

I haven’t seen one of those in Deadwood since the preacher caught a bullet.

You think you can walk out of here, just the two of you?” “I don’t think,” the stranger said, his hand resting lightly on the butt of his right revolver.

“I know.

” The air in the Gem Theater grew thick, heavy with the promise of unprecedented violence.

Swearingen raised a hand, two men with rifles stepping out from the adjacent hallway, taking aim at the stranger’s back.

The drifter was fast, but even he couldn’t dodge bullets coming from four different directions.

The standoff had only just begun.

The metallic clack clack of two Winchester lever-action rifles cocking echoed through the cavernous space of the Gem Theater.

The sound was sharp, cutting through the thick layer of cigar smoke and the heavy breathing of terrified patrons.

Up on the balcony, Al Swearingen smiled, a predator watching a trapped animal.

The two riflemen had their sights dead on the back of the nameless stranger’s canvas duster.

“You’re fast, drifter,” Swearingen called down, his voice carrying a mocking edge.

“Faster than Zeke, certainly, but nobody outruns a rifle bullet from 50 ft.

Put the iron on the floor and step away from the girl.

” The nameless gunslinger didn’t flinch.

He didn’t raise his hands, nor did he drop his stance.

He calculated the angles in his head.

The man on the left was standing near an oil lamp.

The man on the right was partially obscured by a wooden pillar.

He could spin, drop one, but the other would likely tear a hole through his spine.

Clementine trembled behind him, her fingers clutching the coarse fabric of his duster.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the roaring pulse in her ears.

“They’ll kill you.

” “Nobody’s dying today,” a new voice boomed from the front entrance.

The swinging batwing doors of the saloon parted, revealing a man with a stern, angular face, a thick mustache, and eyes that burned with unwavering authority.

It was Seth Bullock.

Though he wore no badge yet in this lawless camp, he carried the heavy, unmistakable aura of a man who commanded order.

In his hands, he held a double-barreled shotgun, its twin muzzles pointed directly up at Swearingen on the balcony.

“Call off your dogs, Al,” Bullock shouted, stepping over the threshold, his heavy boots echoing on the floorboards.

“Unless you want to spend the rest of the week sweeping up brains and trying to explain to the camp why your business is closed for repairs.

” Swearingen’s smile faltered, his jaw tightening.

He despised Bullock.

The hardware store owner was a relentless thorn in his side, a man attempting to bring civilization to a town that thrived on chaos.

“This doesn’t concern you, Seth,” Swearingen hissed, leaning over the railing.

“This man came into my establishment, shot up my men, and is attempting to steal property that rightfully belongs to the Gem.

” “She’s a person, not property, Swearingen,” Bullock countered, not lowering the shotgun an inch.

“And from where I’m standing, the only theft happening is you trying to steal a dead man’s claim from his grieving daughter.

Now, tell your boys to lower those rifles.

I won’t ask twice.

” The tension in the room was a physical weight.

The miners held their breath.

The nameless gunslinger shifted his weight ever so slightly, his hand still resting on his bone-handled revolver, ready to exploit whatever chaos erupted.

Swearingen weighed the cost.

He had a lucrative business to run.

A shootout in the middle of the Gem with Bullock involved would draw too much attention, perhaps even bring down the ire of the hundreds of independent prospectors who respected Bullock.

It was bad for the ledger.

With a dismissive flick of his wrist, Swearingen signaled his men.

The riflemen slowly lowered their weapons, though their eyes remained locked on the stranger.

“Fine, Swearingen spat, taking a step back into the shadows of the second floor.

“Take her, but know this, drifter, Deadwood is a small valley.

There’s only one road in and one road out.

You won’t make it to the canyon.

The deed is mine.

” The gunslinger finally looked up at the balcony, his flint gray eyes piercing the gloom.

“Send whoever you want,” he said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble.

“I brought enough lead for everyone.

” He turned on his heel, keeping his body between Clementine and the balcony, and walked toward the exit.

As he passed Bullock, he gave the man a subtle, barely perceptible nod.

Bullock kept the shotgun raised until the stranger and the girl had pushed through the batwing doors and stepped out into the muddy, sun-drenched street.

“You owe me a new door, Al,” Bullock called out, before backing out of the saloon and letting the doors swing shut behind him.

Out in the blinding afternoon sun, the noise of Deadwood washed over them, the clatter of wagons, the shouts of mule skinners, and the relentless hammering of new construction.

The nameless man didn’t slow his pace, leading Clementine through the thick mud toward the outskirts of the camp, away from the prying eyes of Swearingen’s informers.

“Why did you do that?” Clementine asked, struggling to keep up with his long strides, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

“You don’t even know me.

” The stranger stopped near a livery stable, the smell of hay and horse manure heavy in the air.

He turned to look at her, really look at her, for the first time.

She had dirt smudged across her pale cheeks, her dress was torn at the shoulder, but there was a fierce, unbroken fire in her eyes.

“I know a bully when I see one,” he replied softly.

“And I don’t much care for them.

” He led her into the shadow of the stable.

“What’s on that claim that Swearingen wants so badly? Gold isn’t enough to risk a war with Bullock over.

” Clementine leaned against a wooden post, wiping a streak of mud from her forehead.

“It’s not just the quartz vein,” she confessed, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“My father found an underground aquifer, a massive one.

It feeds directly into the streams that run through the lower gulch.

Swearingen doesn’t just want the gold on my land, he wants the water.

If he builds a dam up there, he controls the panning operations for the entire camp.

He could charge the miners whatever he wants, or drive them out entirely.

He don’t Deadwood.

” The gunslinger nodded slowly, processing the information.

It was a classic baron’s play.

Control the resources, control the people.

“We need to get to Spearfish Canyon,” Clementine urged, grabbing his sleeve.

“My father hid the original surveyor’s map and the federal deed in a lockbox up at the cabin.

If Swearingen gets his hands on it and destroys it, the camp’s mining court will grant him the claim by default.

” The stranger looked up at the rugged, pine-covered peaks of the Black Hills looming in the distance.

The sky was beginning to bruise with the purple hues of twilight.

The trail up to Spearfish was treacherous on a good day.

With Swearingen’s killers hunting them, it would be a slaughterhouse.

“We ride at first light.

” the gunslinger said, turning to check the cinch on a nearby roan stallion.

“Get some sleep.

You’re going to need it.

” Dawn broke over the Dakota territory like a bleeding wound, painting the jagged peaks of the Black Hills in violent shades of crimson and gold.

The air was biting cold, a sharp contrast to the stifling heat of the previous day.

The nameless gunslinger and Clementine rode out of Deadwood before the sun had fully crested the horizon, keeping their horses to a slow, quiet walk to avoid drawing attention.

The gunslinger rode a massive, temperamental grullo gelding, while Clementine sat astride a sturdy bay mare they had purchased from the livery with the last of her father’s hidden savings.

The trail to Spearfish Canyon was a narrow, winding ribbon of dirt that clung dangerously to the side of steep ravines and snaked through dense, oppressive stands of ponderosa pine.

The deeper they rode into the wilderness, the quieter the world became until the only sounds were the rhythmic thud of hooves and the wind whispering through the needles.

The gunslinger rode point, his posture relaxed but his eyes constantly scanning the tree line, reading the broken twigs and disturbed soil like a printed page.

He knew Swearingen wouldn’t let them just walk away.

Three hours into the ride, the trail narrowed into a rocky gorge, known locally as Dead Man’s Defile.

The sheer rock walls rose 50 ft on either side, casting deep, freezing shadows across the path.

The stranger abruptly pulled back on his reins, bringing his gelding to a halt.

He raised a hand, signaling Clementine to stop.

“What is it?” she whispered, her hands gripping the saddlehorn so tightly her knuckles were white.

“Too quiet.

” the gunslinger murmured.

He dismounted smoothly, his boots making no sound on the rocky ground.

He walked a few paces forward, crouching down to inspect a fresh scrape on a granite boulder.

The rock dust was still settling.

A sudden, sharp crack echoed from the ridge above.

Wood splinters showered the gunslinger as a heavy-caliber buffalo rifle bullet buried itself into the trunk of a fallen pine just inches from his head.

“Get down!” he roared, drawing his right revolver and firing blindly up at the ridge to provide cover.

Clementine threw herself from her horse, scrambling behind the thick, rotting trunk of the fallen tree just as a barrage of gunfire erupted from the rocks above.

The air filled with the terrifying hiss of lead tearing through branches and pinging off stone.

“We got him pinned!” a coarse voice yelled from the high ground.

“Spread out! Don’t let the drifter get a clean shot!” Swearingen hadn’t just sent thugs, he’d sent a hunting party.

Leading them was a ruthless tracker named Garrett Hobbs, a man known for wearing a necklace of human teeth and possessing a disturbing talent for ambushes.

The gunslinger pressed his back against the granite wall, rapidly assessing the tactical nightmare.

They were in a fatal funnel.

Hobbs had at least five men up there armed with rifles, firing down on a position with minimal cover.

Staying put meant bleeding out in the dirt.

“Stay low and cover your ears.

” the gunslinger ordered Clementine, his voice remarkably calm amidst the deafening roar of the ambush.

He didn’t wait for her to reply.

He broke cover, sprinting diagonally across the open trail.

Bullets kicked up geysers of dust and rock fragments all around his boots.

He moved with terrifying speed, diving behind an outcropping of jagged slate just as Hobbs’s buffalo rifle roared again, taking a chunk out of the rock where the stranger’s chest had been a fraction of a second prior.

“He’s fast, boss.

” one of the ambushers shouted nervously.

“He’s just meat.

” Hobbs barked back.

“Flush him out!” Two of Hobbs’s men broke from the ridge, sliding down the scree slope to flank the outcropping.

They moved carelessly, confident in their numbers.

That was their first and last mistake.

The gunslinger didn’t wait for them to secure their footing.

He rolled out from behind the slate, both bone-handled revolvers drawn.

He fired three times in less than a second.

The first man took a bullet directly in the throat, dropping his rifle and tumbling backward down the gravel slope in a lifeless heap.

The second man managed to raise his six-shooter, but the gunslinger’s next two shots took him in the chest, folding him over backward.

“Damn it!” Hobbs roared from above.

“Suppressing fire! Keep him pinned!” A hail of bullets hammered the slate outcropping, forcing the gunslinger to pull his hat down and press his face into the dirt.

He ejected the spent cartridges from his revolvers, quickly feeding fresh rounds into the cylinders by touch alone.

He was outnumbered, outgunned, and pinned down.

Then, he noticed it.

Above Hobbs’s position, clinging precariously to the edge of the ravine, was a massive dead ponderosa pine, its roots exposed and rotting from a recent landslide.

The gunslinger holstered his left revolver and pulled his Winchester rifle from the scabbard strapped to his back.

He took a deep breath, visualizing the angle.

He didn’t need to shoot the men, he just needed to change the landscape.

He rolled onto his back, aimed the Winchester almost vertically, and fired three rapid shots into the rotting base of the dead pine.

The heavy metallic thwack of the bullet striking the decaying wood was followed by an agonizing creak.

Hobbs and his remaining men stopped firing, looking up in sudden, dawning horror.

“Move!” Hobbs screamed.

It was too late.

The massive deadwood snapped at the base, gravity pulling tons of timber and loose rock directly down onto the ambushers’ position.

The crash was deafening, a thunderous avalanche of stone and splintered wood that buried the ridge in a choking cloud of brown dust.

Screams were abruptly cut short by the crushing weight of the earth.

Silence descended on Dead Man’s Defile once more, save for the settling of dust and the nervous snorting of the horses.

The gunslinger slowly stood up, brushing the dirt from his duster.

He kept his rifle raised, scanning the wreckage above.

Nothing moved.

He walked over to Clementine, offering her a rough, calloused hand.

She took it, her hands shaking violently, her eyes wide with shock as she looked at the bodies on the slope and the collapsed ridge.

“Are are they all dead?” she stammered.

“For now.

” the gunslinger replied, his eyes narrowing as he looked down the canyon trail.

But Hobbs wasn’t carrying enough gear for a long hunt.

This was just the vanguard.

He turned back to his horse, sliding the Winchester into its scabbard.

“Swearingen has a barricade waiting for us further up.

” he said, his voice grim.

“The real fight hasn’t even started.

” The air grew brutally thin and carried the sharp, unforgiving scent of ozone and crushed pine needles as they climbed higher into the jagged embrace of the Black Hills.

The bodies left behind in Dead Man’s Defile were a grim down payment, but the nameless gunslinger knew Al Swearingen’s ledger always demanded more blood.

They rode in heavy silence for another two hours.

Clementine’s gaze remained fixed on the saddlehorn, the shock of the violent ambush slowly giving way to a cold, hardening resolve.

The grullo gelding snorted, tossing its massive head as the trail suddenly hooked sharply to the left, opening up into a narrow gorge known to the local prospectors as Widow’s Creek.

The roaring waters of the creek churned white and furious 50 ft below a dilapidated wooden bridge.

And blocking that bridge, effectively severing the only viable route up to the Spearfish claim, was a formidable wall of stacked timber and overturned freight wagons.

The gunslinger pulled his mount to a halt behind the cover of a massive limestone boulder, gesturing for Clementine to do the same.

He dismounted, sliding his Winchester from its leather scabbard, and crawled up the slick rock face to peer over the top.

The barricade was an absolute fortress.

Rifles bristled from the gaps in the timber like iron porcupine quills.

Pacing behind the overturned wagons was a man the gunslinger recognized by reputation alone, Dutch Vandergilt.

Dutch was a disgraced former cavalry sergeant who had been drummed out of the military for unspeakable cruelties against the Cheyenne.

Now, he sold his tactical sadism to the highest bidder, and Swearingen paid exceedingly well.

“I count six rifles.

” the gunslinger murmured, sliding back down the rock face to where Clementine crouched.

“They have the high ground, the cover, and a clear line of sight.

We try to ride across that bridge, we’ll be stitched full of holes before the horses take three steps.

” Clementine wiped a smear of dirt and dried sweat from her brow, peering around the edge of the limestone.

She studied the roaring creek below and the steep, practically vertical cliff face that bordered the right side of the bridge.

“We don’t cross the bridge.

” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

Before the bridge was built, my father and the early prospectors used a diverted water sluice to move or down the mountain.

It’s an old tunnel bored right through the limestone on the right flank.

The entrance is hidden behind those thick elderberry bushes down by the water’s edge.

The gunslinger looked at her, his flint gray eyes appraising the young woman.

She was no fragile saloon flower.

She was a survivor forged in the Dakota dirt.

“Where does the tunnel let out?” he asked.

“Right behind the barricade.

” she replied.

“About 20 yards behind their wagons, but it’s narrow and pitch black.

If they hear you coming up the shaft, they won’t be listening for me.

” the gunslinger interrupted, checking the loads in his twin bone-handled revolvers.

“Because I’ll be out here keeping them very busy.

You take the tunnel.

” Clementine’s eyes widened in sheer panic.

“Me? I can’t shoot a gun.

” “You don’t need to shoot.

” he said, reaching into his heavy canvas duster and pulling out three sticks of tightly bound dynamite capped and fused.

He handed them to her.

“You just need to light a match.

When you get to the top of the tunnel, stay out of sight.

Wait until I draw their fire, then chuck these right into the bed of that main freight wagon.

Understand?” She stared at the red waxed paper of the explosives, her hands trembling.

“What if I miss?” “Don’t miss.

” he said simply.

With a deep shuddering breath, Clementine tucked the dynamite into the pocket of her torn dress and began the treacherous sliding descent down the muddy embankment toward the churning creek below.

The gunslinger waited until she vanished behind the dense thicket of elderberry bushes.

He checked his pocket watch.

He would give her exactly 10 minutes to navigate the dark claustrophobic sluice tunnel.

The 10 minutes stretched like a hangman’s rope.

When the time was up, the nameless gunslinger stepped out from behind the limestone boulder, stepping directly into the center of the trail, fully exposed to the barricade.

“Vandergilt!” the gunslinger roared, his voice echoing off the canyon walls.

Up at the barricade, Dutch Vandergilt laughed, stepping up to a gap in the timber, resting his heavy Sharps rifle on a log.

“Well, look what the cat dragged up the mountain.

Swearinger said you were a tough bastard to kill, drifter, but stepping out in the open like that, you’re either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.

” “I’m impatient.

” the gunslinger replied, raising his Winchester.

“Fire!” Vandergilt screamed.

The barricade erupted in a blinding flash of muzzle fire.

The air was instantly torn apart by whistling lead.

The gunslinger dropped to one knee, ignoring the bullets that chipped the stone around his boots and tore through the hem of his duster.

He took careful, steady aim, firing rapidly into the narrow gaps of the timber.

His first shot shattered the collarbone of a rifleman on the left flank.

His second shot tore through the wooden spokes of a wagon wheel, ricocheting and taking a second man in the leg.

But the return fire was overwhelming.

A bullet grazed the gunslinger’s left bicep, tearing through the canvas coat and searing his flesh like a hot iron.

He grunted, diving forward into a shallow muddy rut for cover.

He pumped the lever of his Winchester, laying down a relentless barrage of suppressing fire, trying to draw every ounce of Dutch’s attention toward the front of the bridge.

“Come on, Clementine.

” he thought, wiping a trickle of sweat from his eyes.

“Light the fuse.

” Behind the barricade, the deafening roar of the gunfight masked the sound of loose gravel shifting behind them.

Clementine pulled herself from the damp, spider-infested darkness of the sluice tunnel.

She was covered in mud and slime, her breathing ragged, but she had made it.

She peeked around a rusted ore cart and saw the backs of Vandergilt and his men entirely focused on raining hell down on the gunslinger.

Her hands shook violently as she pulled a sulfur match from her pocket.

She struck it against the rusty iron of the cart.

The flame flared to life, a tiny, fragile beacon in the shadows.

She touched it to the braided fuse of the dynamite bundle.

It hissed, sparking violently.

Clementine stepped out from her cover, wound her arm back, and hurled the bundled explosives with everything she had.

The dynamite soared through the air in a terrifying arc.

“What the” Vandergilt started to say, catching movement in his peripheral vision.

He turned just as the bundled dynamite landed squarely in the bed of the overturned freight wagon.

“Incoming!” Vandergilt shrieked, abandoning his rifle and throwing himself blindly over the side of the bridge.

The explosion was apocalyptic.

The blast tore the freight wagon to splinters, sending massive chunks of flaming wood, twisted iron axles, and pulverized dirt flying into the sky.

The concussion wave knocked Clementine flat on her back, ringing her ears with a high-pitched, agonizing whine.

Two of Swearinger’s men were thrown over the barricade like broken dolls, while the rest were buried beneath the collapsing timber wall.

Down the trail, the gunslinger stood up, dusting off his knees.

The barricade was gone, replaced by a smoking, cratered ruin.

He walked calmly across the bridge, boots crunching over the charred remains of Swearinger’s blockade.

He [snorts] found Clementine sitting up, coughing amidst the thick black smoke.

“You didn’t miss.

” he said, offering her his uninjured right hand.

She took it, a grim, adrenaline-fueled smile breaking through the soot on her face.

“I’m a fast learner.

Let’s move.

” he said, glancing over the edge of the bridge where Vandergilt had vanished into the raging creek below.

Spearfish is just over the ridge.

The Spearfish claim was a slice of rugged paradise hidden away from the filth and greed of Deadwood.

Nuzzled in a verdant valley flanked by towering, ancient pines, a pristine, crystal-clear stream wound its way past a sturdy, hand-hewn log cabin.

It was easy to see why men would kill for this land.

The sheer volume of fresh water flowing from the underground aquifer was worth more than its weight in gold to the dry mining camps below.

But as the gunslinger and Clementine rode into the clearing, the idyllic scene was shattered.

The heavy wooden door of the cabin hung off its iron hinges, splintered and violently forced open.

The gunslinger immediately unholstered his right revolver, signaling Clementine to stay behind the horses.

He moved toward the cabin with the silent, predatory grace of a cougar, his boots making no sound on the soft pine needles.

He pressed his back against the exterior wall, listening intently.

Nothing.

Only the rushing of the stream and the rustle of wind.

He pivoted sharply, sweeping the interior of the cabin with his weapon.

The inside was completely ransacked.

Flower sacks were slashed, showering the floor in white powder.

Floorboards were pried up and mattresses were gutted, their straw stuffing scattered like dead leaves.

“It’s clear.

” the gunslinger called out, his voice tense.

Clementine rushed into the cabin, a gasp escaping her lips as she surveyed the destruction of her childhood home.

“They tore the place apart.

Did they find it?” “If they found it, they wouldn’t have kept tearing up the floorboards in the kitchen.

” the gunslinger deduced, kicking aside a broken chair.

“Where did your father hide the lock box?” “He didn’t hide it under the floor.

” A new, sickeningly familiar voice echoed from the shadows of the loft above.

“He hid it in the stone hearth, didn’t he, Clemmy?” The gunslinger spun, aiming his revolver up at the heavy timber loft.

Standing there, holding a double-barreled shotgun pointed squarely down at Clementine, was Caleb Boone.

Boone was a rat-faced prospector with greasy hair and a nervous twitch in his left eye.

He had been Clementine’s father’s trusted partner for 5 years.

“Caleb?” Clementine whispered, the betrayal hitting her harder than a physical blow.

“You’re with Swearinger?” “Al pays in gold, Clemmy, not in promises of water flowing downhill.

” Boone sneered, descending the wooden ladder with one hand, keeping the shotgun leveled with the other.

“Your daddy was a stubborn old fool.

He thought he could fight the gem.

I just helped him realize his mistake.

A hunting accident, they called it.

Tragic.

” Tears welled in Clementine’s eyes, but they were hot with absolute fury, not sorrow.

“You killed him.

You killed my father for a handful of Swearinger’s bloody coins.

And now I’m going to kill you, unless you pull that lock box out of the hearth right now.

” Boone demanded, his finger whitening on the shotgun’s triggers.

He turned his twitching gaze to the gunslinger.

“Drop the iron, drifter.

You might be fast, but a scattergun at this range will cut the girl in half before your hammer even falls.

” The nameless gunslinger evaluated the geometry of the room.

Boone had the drop on them.

The spread of the buckshot would indeed be fatal to Clementine.

With a terrifyingly calm demeanor, the gunslinger slowly uncocked his revolver, letting it slide from his fingers and hit the wooden floorboards with a heavy thud.

“Smart boy.

” Boone laughed nervously.

“Now, Clemmy, the hearth.

Move.

” Clementine slowly walked toward the massive stone fireplace dominating the far wall.

She knelt in the soot and ashes, her hands trembling as she reached toward a loose stone at the back of the firebox.

She pulled the heavy granite rock free, revealing a dark soot-stained cavity.

Reaching inside, she retrieved a heavy black iron lockbox.

“Bring it here.

” Boone ordered, stepping closer, greed overpowering his caution.

He lowered the shotgun just an inch to reach for the box.

It was the opening the gunslinger needed.

“Clementine, now!” the gunslinger yelled.

Instead of handing the lockbox to Boone, Clementine gripped it with both hands, pivoted with explosive force, and swung the heavy iron box upward, smashing it directly into the underside of Boone’s jaw.

The sickening crack of breaking bone echoed through the cabin.

Boone shrieked, staggering backward, his shotgun discharging wildly into the ceiling, raining splinters and dust down upon them.

The gunslinger didn’t bother diving for his dropped revolver.

He stepped forward, his left hand smoothly drawing the second bone-handled Colt from his thigh.

Before Boone could recover his balance or chamber another shell, the gunslinger fired a single deafening shot.

The heavy lead slug caught Boone square in the chest, lifting the traitorous prospector off his feet and throwing him backward through the shattered front doorway.

He landed in the dirt outside, staring sightlessly up at the blue Dakota sky.

The cabin was silent again, save for the ringing in their ears and the heavy ragged breathing of the two survivors.

Clementine dropped the heavy iron box onto the table, her hands covered in soot and blood.

“We have it.

” She breathed, staring at the box.

Inside lay the surveyor’s map and the federal deed, the only things keeping Swearingen from choking the life out of Deadwood.

The gunslinger retrieved his dropped weapon, holstering both guns with a sharp clack clack.

He walked over to the shattered window, looking out toward the horizon.

The victory was short-lived.

His eyes narrowed.

“We need to ride, now.

” he said, his voice grim.

“Why?” Clementine asked, joining him at the window.

Rising from the valley below, far down in the direction of the lower mining camps of Deadwood, thick greasy columns of black smoke were clawing their way into the sky.

It wasn’t just a campfire, it was a conflagration.

“Because Swearingen isn’t waiting for the deed anymore.

” the gunslinger said, turning toward the door.

“He’s burning the lower claims.

He’s taking the water by force, and he’s burning anyone who stands in his way.

The war didn’t end up here, Clementine.

It’s just moving down the mountain.

” The descent from Spearfish Canyon was a journey into the mouth of hell.

What had been a treacherous but beautiful mountain trail just hours before was now bathed in the sickly jaundiced light of a valley consuming itself.

Plumes of oily black smoke blotted out the midday sun, casting a premature twilight over the rugged Dakota landscape.

As the nameless gunslinger and Clementine pushed their exhausted horses down the steep switchbacks, the air grew thick and heavy, tasting of scorched canvas, burning pine, and the bitter tang of sulfur.

Ash fell from the sky like dirty snow, coating the gunslinger’s canvas duster and settling into the mane of his grullo gelding.

The roar of the creek beside them was slowly being drowned out by a more terrifying sound, the crackle of massive fires and the distant chaotic symphony of shouting voices and sporadic gunfire.

“He’s burning them out.

” Clementine said, her voice hollow as she pulled her bandanna up over her nose and mouth.

She clutched her saddlebags tight.

Inside rested the heavy iron lockbox containing the deed.

“The independent prospectors down in the lower gulch.

If he burns their equipment and ruins their sluices, they’ll have no choice but to pack up and leave.

He’s clearing the board.

” “Swearingen is a businessman.

” the gunslinger replied, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the burning treeline ahead.

“He knows the federal magistrate is due in the territory by the end of the month.

If he has physical control of the water and the land, and the previous owners are gone or dead, the paper deed becomes a lot harder to enforce.

He’s taking possession by force.

” They reached the outskirts of Deadwood’s lower camps, and the sheer scale of the devastation became apparent.

Dozens of canvas tents were reduced to smoldering husks.

Wooden sluice boxes had been smashed and set ablaze.

Miners, their faces blackened with soot and twisted in despair, were frantically throwing buckets of muddy water onto burning supply wagons, fighting a losing battle against the roaring inferno.

Swearingen’s thugs, men imported from the slums of Chicago and the blood-soaked borders of Missouri, rode through the chaos on heavy draft horses, tossing torches into anything that hadn’t yet caught fire.

They were laughing, drunk on the power of unchecked destruction.

The gunslinger brought his horse to a halt behind the remains of a charred livery stable.

He watched two of Swearingen’s men corner a terrified family, whipping their heavy leather belts against the side of a covered wagon to drive them off their claim.

The stranger didn’t say a word.

He simply drew his Winchester rifle from its scabbard, rested the heavy octagonal barrel across his saddle horn, and cocked the lever.

Crack.

Crack.

The two thugs were thrown from their saddles before they even heard the reports of the rifle.

The remaining arsonists in the immediate vicinity turned, their cruel laughter dying in their throats as they saw the solitary rider emerging from the smoke, a ghost born from the ash.

“Get to the hardware store!” a voice bellowed over the roar of the flames.

Bursting through a wall of black smoke came Seth Bullock, his clothes singed, a heavy double-barreled shotgun gripped in his soot-stained hands.

Beside him was his business partner, Sol Star, wielding a repeating rifle and desperately trying to usher fleeing miners toward the center of town.

Bullock spotted the gunslinger and Clementine, a grim expression of relief washing over his stern features.

“You made it down the mountain!” he shouted, running over to their position.

“I heard the blast up near Widow’s Creek, thought Vanderbilt had finished you.

” “Vanderbilt had a sudden change of altitude.

” the gunslinger stated flatly, sliding the Winchester back into its sheath and dismounting.

He moved to help Clementine down.

“We have the deed and the original surveyor maps.

The water is hers, legally.

” “Legality doesn’t mean much when the judge is choking on smoke.

” Star coughed, wiping his brow.

“Swearingen has lost his mind.

He’s barricaded himself inside the Gem with his top shooters.

He sent the rest of his gutter trash out here to burn the camp to the bedrock.

He says if he can’t have the water rights, nobody will have a town to drink it in.

He’s holding hostages, too.

” Bullock added, his jaw tight with righteous fury.

“He dragged the mining court magistrate and two city planners into the Gem.

He’s demanding a formal transfer of all lower gulch claims to his syndicate by sundown, or he starts tossing bodies off the balcony.

” Clementine gripped the gunslinger’s arm, her eyes wide with terror.

“If we give him the deed, he wins.

He’ll own everything.

We We aren’t giving him anything.

” the gunslinger said.

His voice was a low, steady rumble, anchoring the panic around him.

He looked at Bullock.

“You have men willing to fight?” “I have a dozen angry prospectors with shotguns and pickaxes holding the line at my store.

” Bullock confirmed.

“But they aren’t gunfighters.

If we march on the Gem, it’ll be a slaughter.

Swearingen has a pair of Gatling guns mounted on the second floor windows, hidden behind iron plates.

We step onto Main Street, he mows us down.

” The gunslinger looked up at the sky.

The thick black smoke was billowing directly toward the center of town, carried by a stiff northern draft funneling through the canyon.

It was a chaotic, blinding curtain.

“He can’t shoot what he can’t see.

” the gunslinger murmured.

He turned to Sol Star.

“Those blasting caps you sell at the store, the heavy ones used for deep rock mining.

Do you have any left?” Star blinked, confused.

“Yes, a whole crate in the cellar.

Why?” The nameless man pulled his twin bone-handled revolvers, checking the cylinders one final time, the rhythmic metallic click sounding like a death knell in the smoky air.

“Because we’re going to use the fire.

” the gunslinger said, his flint gray eyes reflecting the dancing flames around them.

“Bullock, you and your men lay down a wall of lead on the front of the Gem.

Keep those Gatling gunners busy.

Clementine, you stay in the cellar of the hardware store with the deed.

Do not come out until it’s quiet.

” “What are you going to do?” Bullock demanded.

“I’m going to deliver Swearingen a message.

” the stranger said, stepping away from his horse and walking toward the heart of the inferno.

Right to his front door.

Main Street was a terrifying vision of purgatory.

The mud had baked into cracked clay under the intense heat of the surrounding fires.

Abandoned wagons burned like massive pyres, sending walls of sparks swirling into the choking air.

>> [snorts] >> At the far end of the thoroughfare, stood the Gem Theater, an imposing fortress of wood and vice.

True to Bullock’s word, the heavy wooden shutters of the second floor had been thrown open, revealing the dull, menacing brass barrels of two Gatling guns.

Swearingen was taking no chances.

The front doors of the Gem were heavily barricaded with sandbags and whiskey barrels.

Patrolling the perimeter were a dozen of his most hardened killers, led by a towering, utterly merciless brute known only as Hiram.

Hiram wielded a massive 10-gauge scattergun and wore a thick leather apron reinforced with iron plates, a crude but effective bulletproof vest.

The gunslinger moved through the smoke like a shadow.

He didn’t walk down the center of the street.

He navigated the narrow, burning alleyways, using the intense heat and the blinding ash as his cover.

In his left hand, he held a heavy canvas sack acquired from Star’s hardware store, filled to the brim with volatile Deep Rock blasting caps.

Suddenly, a massive volley of gunfire erupted from the south end of the street.

Seth Bullock and his makeshift militia had opened fire from the safety of the hardware store’s brick facade.

Rifles and shotguns roared, sending a hail of lead crashing into the front of the Gem Theater.

“Light them up!” Hiram bellowed from behind the sandbags, his voice like grinding metal.

The Gatling guns answered.

The mechanical, terrifying roar of the crank-operated weapons tore through the camp.

A relentless torrent of high-caliber bullets shredded the wooden awnings of the street, chewing the mud into a frothing mess, and suppressing Bullock’s men instantly.

While the Gatling guns spat fire down the street, the gunslinger made his move.

He slipped out of the alleyway, barely 20 yards from the right flank of the Gem.

The smoke here was so thick, it was like moving through dirty water.

Two of Hiram’s riflemen were posted near a burning water trough, their eyes fixed on Bullock’s position.

They never saw the ghost stepping out of the ash.

The gunslinger didn’t use his firearms, the muzzle flash would give away his position.

He drew a heavy, razor-sharp Bowie knife from his boot.

He closed the distance in three silent, rapid strides.

He grabbed the first man by the collar, dragging him backward into the smoke while simultaneously driving the hilt of the knife into the base of his skull.

The man collapsed without a sound.

The second rifleman turned, sensing the sudden absence of his companion.

“Hey, where’d you” The gunslinger’s heavy leather boot snapped up, catching the man squarely in the chest, driving the air from his lungs.

As the thug doubled over, the gunslinger brought the heavy barrel of his unholstered Colt down across the man’s temple.

“Two down, 10 to go.

” But Hiram wasn’t a fool.

The massive brute noticed the gap in his defensive line.

He peered into the swirling smoke, his thick fingers tightening on his 10-gauge.

“We got a rat in the smoke!” Hiram roared, raising his weapon.

“Sweep the right flank!” Three men detached from the barricade, firing blindly into the gray curtain.

Bullets whipped past the gunslinger’s ears, one grazing the thick canvas of his duster.

He dropped low, crawling behind the remains of a charred buckboard wagon.

He needed to neutralize the Gatling guns, or Bullock and his men would be cut to ribbons.

The gunslinger reached into the canvas sack and pulled out a handful of the blasting caps.

He tied them tightly to a short fuse, striking a match against the heel of his boot.

The fuse hissed to life.

He waited exactly 3 seconds, calculating the distance and the wind, then threw the bundle with perfect, deadly precision.

The improvised explosive soared through the smoke and landed squarely on the wooden overhang of the Gem’s first-floor porch, directly beneath the right-side Gatling gun window.

The explosion was concentrated and violent.

The blast blew the overhang upward, shattering the floorboards of the second story, and collapsing the heavy iron plating supporting the mechanical gun.

Screams erupted from the balcony as the weapon and its operator tumbled down into the muddy street amidst a shower of splintered wood and broken glass.

“He’s on the right!” Hiram screamed, charging forward with his iron-plated apron, firing his 10-gauge.

A massive spray of buckshot pulverized the buckboard wagon, showering the gunslinger in razor-sharp wood splinters.

The nameless man rolled out from cover, both bone-handled revolvers drawn.

He fired two shots center mass at Hiram.

The bullets struck the iron plates under the leather apron with a loud clang, staggering the giant but failing to penetrate.

Hiram laughed, a wet, ugly sound, racking the pump of his shotgun.

“You can’t hurt me, drifter.

” The gunslinger didn’t panic.

He analyzed the threat.

Iron plates protected the chest and stomach.

He needed a different angle.

As Hiram raised the shotgun for a fatal blast, the gunslinger threw himself sideways into the deep, muddy rut of the street.

He aimed upward, firing from the ground.

He didn’t aim for the chest, he aimed for the heavy, brass-buckled straps securing the iron plates over Hiram’s shoulders.

Crack.

Crack.

The precision was inhuman.

The first bullet shattered the left buckle, the second tore through the thick leather strap on the right.

The heavy iron plates, suddenly unsupported, slipped downward, exposing Hiram’s upper chest and throat.

The brute’s eyes widened in sudden realization.

Before the plates hit the mud, the gunslinger fired a third time.

The bullet caught Hiram perfectly in the exposed throat.

The giant dropped his shotgun, clutching his neck as he collapsed like a felled redwood.

With Hiram down and one Gatling gun destroyed, Swearingen’s defensive line crumbled in a panic.

Bullock, seeing the opening, rallied his men.

“Push forward!” Bullock roared, charging out of the hardware store with his shotgun blazing.

“Take the street!” The remaining thugs, realizing they were suddenly caught in a crossfire between the furious militia and the deadly phantom in the smoke, broke and ran, abandoning the barricades.

The gunslinger stood up slowly, reloading his revolvers with fluid, practiced motions.

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