Frank reluctantly pulled the sapphire necklace from his pocket and handed it to Chris.
"Do you have it?" Henry's voice called out.
"Yes," Chris replied, her voice filled with gratitude.
"Good. Frank, you may leave."
Frank scurried backward out of the car and ran fifty meters before raising his rifle and taking aim at the train car's exit.
"Wait, Jesse," Henry said. "The lady who just got her necklace back. Let her go as well. I'm worried you'll retaliate against her."
"That wasn't our deal."
"That's because Frank was hiding stolen property. Trust me, my guarantee is more reliable than you can imagine. If it weren't, you and your brother would already be dead. When you escape from here, do some digging. Find out about the reputation of Sheriff Henry of Denver. Then you'll understand just how lucky you are today."
Jesse was silent for a long moment. He didn't think the man was bluffing. His entire gang was gone, and the silence from outside was absolute. And Frank, now free, hadn't fired a shot. It meant Henry was likely the only enemy.
It was an unbelievable, impossible situation, but the facts were the facts.
"Remember your promise, Henry," Jesse snarled, and then gestured for Chris to leave.
Overjoyed, Chris ran out of the car and toward Henry, who directed her to take cover with the others.
"Very good, Jesse. I see your sincerity. To spare others is to spare yourself. You may go."
Jesse crouched low, his pistol still pressed against the last hostage, Mark, and slowly backed away. When he reached the door, he turned and fled.
Henry immediately ran to the other end of the car but did not fire. He watched as the James brothers disappeared down the hillside and rode away. He had his reasons. A fight with the local law over the ten-thousand-dollar bounty was a complication he didn't need. The law in this Gilded Age was corrupt, and this act of "mercy" was a strategic investment that he was sure would pay dividends later.
Besides, after this, the James brothers would be the most wanted men in the country. They would be running for their lives, no longer a threat to him.
Henry returned to the ravaged train car and took command.
"The James brothers are gone. You are safe now. You two gentlemen," he said, pointing, "go to the front of the train and free the crew. Have them check the tracks for damage. You two, ride a mile back up the track and flag down any approaching train."
"The rest of you, please gather your valuables and wait by the side of the tracks in case of any further trouble. I'm going to clear the other cars."
"If you were robbed, your belongings are in these two sacks. Please reclaim them."
"I'm sorry to report that all the men in the guard car have been killed."
The four young gentlemen immediately went to carry out his orders.
During the entire gunfight, the reporter, Tom, had bravely peeked through the small compartment window. He had watched as the outlaws fell like harvested straw, his heart pounding with adrenaline. This is the story of a lifetime!
He and his editor, Conrad, had thought Pete's stories were wildly exaggerated. Now they knew the truth. Pete's words had been a pale, feeble imitation of the reality. They hadn't captured a tenth of Henry's true, terrifying power.
They now stared at him as if they were gazing upon a god.
Henry passed through the car, his badge now pinned to his chest, his twin revolvers holstered at his hips.
"The outlaws have been dealt with," he announced. "You're safe. But just in case, please gather your belongings and wait outside. I've already sent men to check the tracks."
"Pete, you hold Becky. I'm going to clear the forward cars."
He tossed the bodies of the dead outlaws from the train, then strode to the next car. "I am Sheriff Henry!" he called out. "The outlaws have been killed! Is anyone in here?"
A man with a thick beard peered out. He saw the legendary figure from the stories and let out a sigh of relief. "No, sir. The last three jumped off the train. The ones you killed."
"Good. For your safety, please gather your things and disembark."
He moved from car to car, repeating the process, until all the passengers were safely off the train, politely reclaiming their stolen property from the sacks he had left on the ground.
A few minutes later, the train's own eight guards emerged from the forward cars, their rifles held cautiously.
Henry showed them his badge. "I am Sheriff Henry. The outlaws have been neutralized. Do any of you know the nearest town with a Sheriff's office?"
The guards stared at the carnage on the ground, at the smoking wreck of the Gatling gun on the hill, and then at the badge on Henry's chest. The unbelievable truth finally began to sink in. They were safe.