Hunter, the man from the Chicago black market headquarters, had arrived at the Aston Hotel in Denver on the 22nd.
He had since met with Bowie at the Pinkerton's office, questioned the Vigilance Committee, and personally examined many of the bodies. He noted that ten of the corpses, including the bartender from the Hamlet Saloon, had been killed with throwing knives.
He then made contact with the McKinley family and, after being hauled up the eighty-meter cliff by a rope ladder, had a meeting with Brendan. Brendan had confirmed that all three of his contracts with the black market, especially the bounty on Henry, were to remain active.
Hunter had pieced it all together. The enemy had mobilized a powerful force with terrifying speed and silence, and they had a grudge against both the McKinleys and the black market. The list of suspects was short.
Yesterday, on the 23rd, he had sent a telegram to his superiors in Chicago with his conclusion: the attack had most likely been carried out by Henry Bruce, leading a team of the Sinclair family's elite private soldiers.
In Chicago, the head of the entire black market operation, a man named Morrison, read Hunter's report alongside the news from the Chicago Tribune. He knew the reputation of the James and Younger gangs. He knew what it would take to defeat them.
He came to the same conclusion as his man in Denver. A surprise attack, led by Henry and backed by the Sinclair's forces, was the only plausible explanation.
And that was a problem. A man with Henry's personal power, allied with the Sinclair fortune, was a direct threat to the black market's interests in the Colorado mining industry. They had struck too fast, too hard. They could not be allowed to operate unchecked.
Morrison sent out two telegrams.
Under normal circumstances, the black market did not personally fulfill the bounties posted on its network; they were merely the platform. But these were not normal circumstances. To restore their reputation, they had to respond in kind. An eye for an eye. Blood for blood.
Henry must die.
In Denver, Hunter received the telegram from his boss. He read about Henry's latest exploit on the train, and his theory was now a certainty.
In New York, the head of the local black market, a man named Travis, received the same order. He re-posted the ten-thousand-dollar bounty on Henry and put his intelligence network on high alert, with a special focus on the city's two largest gangs—the Whyos and the Short Tails—as well as several of the top independent assassins. He then summoned his head of security, a man named Neil, and told him to prepare a force of a hundred gunmen.
Soon, the name Henry Bruce was on the lips of every killer in New York City.
The leader of the Whyos gang, Mike, read the report and muttered to himself, "Henry, Henry… you just love the spotlight, don't you? Stick your nose where it doesn't belong. It's a hard way to live."
On the train, the mood was light. In the confines of the luxury car, the survivors had grown close.
"Henry," the young aristocrat, Mark, asked after breakfast, "have you heard of Annie, the 'West's First Sharpshooter'?"
"I have not. Why?"
Mark recounted the incredible feats of marksmanship they had witnessed in Omaha. "So," he asked, a hopeful look in his eyes, "what do you think of her skill?"
"She sounds like a remarkable woman," Henry replied. "Truly worthy of the title."
"I mean," Mark pressed, "if you were to duel her, do you think you could win?"
Henry just shrugged. "I hope that day never comes. Every gunslinger I have dueled is now in heaven or in hell."
A chill went down Mark's spine, and he said no more.
"I've invited Annie and her husband to perform at my birthday party," Consuelo chimed in. "There will be magicians, circus acts, boxers, and fencers as well. You must come early and watch with me, Henry."
"I would be delighted to be a part of such a grand occasion," he said with a smile.
"Henry," asked Dylan, the young man with the bandaged hand, "could you teach me how to shoot like you?"
"Of course," Henry replied instantly. "But you should wait until your hand has healed. I'll need to see you shoot before I can give you any advice."
"Truly? That's wonderful! Thank you, Henry!"
Henry smiled. He had his own reasons for building a rapport with these young men. Their family names—Semma, Adams, Livingston—were a roll call of the nation's founding fathers. They might be spoiled dandies, but they were the best kind of business partners—the kind who didn't ask too many questions.
In a luxurious manor in the Upper East Side of New York, a fourteen-year-old girl named Fiona burst into her sister's room.
"Alice," she said, "this Sheriff Henry in the papers, from Frisco. Do you know him?"
Alice, who had been brooding, looked up from her book. "What are you talking about?"
"The man who killed sixty-eight train robbers all by himself! Haven't you been reading the news?"
"Henry?" Alice took the two newspapers from her sister's hand.
She read them, her eyes growing wider with every line. "He is the son of our family's oldest friends," she finally said, her voice a near-whisper. "He was my best friend in town."
"Really? That's wonderful!" Fiona squealed. "He looks so handsome! They say he'll be in New York in a few days. You have to introduce me!"
"Fiona, watch your tongue. What does it matter if he's handsome?" Alice said, her face stern.
Fiona just stuck her tongue out and looked at her sister with pleading eyes.
"He's coming here to escort me back to Frisco to see our grandparents," Alice said with a sigh. "You'll be able to meet him then."
"Oh, wonderful! I want to go see them too! Will you ask Papa for me?"
"If your grades were better, you could go anywhere you wanted," Alice said, her attention already back on the newspaper. "You'll have to ask him yourself."
Fiona rolled her eyes and left the room.
Alice read the articles again, her mind reeling. "Is it really you, Henry?" she whispered to herself. "It's impossible. Your aim was never even as good as mine…"