Prologue

  “Controller, reset playback. Run recording VM7056, subject 801B4275XTX0001. Judge A56AT1332 override authorized.”

  The sterile white room faded, giving way to a still image of a raging blizzard. Trees rendered next—tall pines sagging under heavy snow, reaching into jagged peaks. A low winter sky smothered what little light the half-moon offered. The scene sharpened: a small black cabin and a barn emerged in a narrow valley, barely distinguishable against the snow. Smoke curled from a stone chimney but vanished into the wind a few inches above the flue. Faint shadows disturbed the perfect snow between the structures.

  “One hundred percent loaded,” chimed a neutral voice.

  Instantly, the view surged forward, through the cabin walls, and settled inside. The shift from frozen wasteland to cramped warmth was disorienting. A stone hearth glowed faintly, its embers barely holding life. In the dim red light, the details of the single-room cabin emerged.

  The scene brightened. Two figures became visible. One lay bundled in a nest of furs tucked into a corner alcove, nearly invisible beneath the layered pelts. The other slumped in a chair near the fire, an empty bottle dangling from his fingers. A thick beard and long black hair covered his face. The space around them was sparse but lived-in: worn coats hung by the door, cookware rested above the hearth, and a rough-hewn table still bore the remains of a meal. A larger bed remained untouched. No windows sat within the thick log walls; light was a luxury, warmth a necessity at this altitude.

  "Play."

  The storm stirred. Snow fell in silent spirals. Embers hissed in the hearth. Then, boots crunching outside. Shouts. And a sudden, violent knock that echoed through the walls.

  The bundled figure moved beneath furs. A frizzy red head peeked from the furs, her green eyes blearily locking on the door. Another knock, harder than before, widened her eyes. She threw off the pelts and rushed to the man in the chair.

  “Papa,” she whispered, shaking his arm. He didn’t stir. The bottle dangled from his fingers. His head lolled back, mouth open, snoring thickly.

  “Papa...please,” she hissed, panic rising with every heartbeat. The third knock hit like a hammer.

  Another voice shouted, angry and muffled by the storm. She shook him harder, frantic now.

  Papa groaned, coughing as he blinked into the glow of the dying fire. His breath caught. Another knock. His eyes snapped to the door, and his entire bearing changed.

  His drunken haze didn’t clear. It shattered.

  The color drained from his face as he sat bolt upright, like waking into a nightmare. His eyes locked on the door, unblinking. A soundless moment passed.

  “Mary,” he said low, his voice as deep as a bull's, a ragged whisper wrapped in fear. “Get to your bed. Now. Curtain. Go!”

  She ran without hesitation. The curtain pulled shut behind her, but her eyes soon found him through the small crack.

  He stood slowly, his immense size becoming clear. At nearly six and a half feet and two hundred and seventy pounds, he was a mountain of a man. In most people's eyes, he could have passed for a walking bear.

  Like a condemned man preparing to approach the gallows, he stepped towards the door, before he reached for his belt out of habit, then froze. His gun was gone. His breathing hitched. His eyes searched the room and found nothing. With another powerful banging from the door, he shook himself, straightened, swallowed hard, and crossed the floor with heavy, reluctant steps. His deep voice thundered toward the door.

  “WHO’S THERE?”

  The storm answered Havish’s call with silence. Then, a gruff, familiar voice cut through the cold: “Havish, ya drunk gorilla! We’re freezin’ our balls off out here!”

  From behind the curtain, Mary’s face lit up. She recognized the voice. A crooked smile broke through her tangled hair, but her father’s hand shot up, palm open. Stay hidden. His face didn’t smile. It had gone still. Pale with fear.

  The moment he heard the voice, something behind his eyes cracked, not confusion, recognition, and dread. His breath drew shallow. His hand hovered near the door’s bar but didn’t move, as he seemed to be fighting a war within himself. Then, with a mechanical slowness, he lifted the latch. The wood groaned loudly as the door swung open, and a gust of frozen air rushed into the cabin past Havish's frame.

  Outside stood nearly a dozen men, stiff with cold and covered in frost. Their leather coats, worn hats, and scarf-wrapped faces were dusted in snow like half-buried corpses. None moved until the largest one ducked in first. His scarf peeled down to reveal a pockmarked grin that didn’t reach his eyes. They were cold, lifeless marbles. He was tall, thin, and smiling too widely, William Buetherd, Havish’s little brother.

  “Hey there, ya big bear,” William said, stepping into the warmth.

  Havish didn’t move. He didn’t blink. Only when William looked back and waved the others in did Havish finally step aside. The snow-crusted men filed into the cabin one by one, nodding stiffly. Their eyes immediately went to the fireplace. All of them were ignoring, or at least not looking at each other, as they shuffled over and added more wood.

  Havish closed and latched the large door. Inside, the storm faded behind the thick door, but the cold remained. Havish stared at William, trying to read his brother’s face and discern why his brother would dare show up here. He didn’t find one. Only emptiness. That old glint of mischief? Gone, replaced with something colder.

  With effort, Havish motioned to the small table. The brothers sat across from each other. William stripped off his scarf, his hands shaking badly, as he pulled off his hat and gloves, pretending nothing was wrong. The man was frozen, his fingers showing signs of frostbite.

  Havish’s voice came quietly. Cautious, “Only eight here, Will. How many did you leave with the horses?” William didn’t answer. Havish’s jaw flexed. “Fine, scratch that. I don’t care. What the hell are you doin’ here? What would make you ride through a storm like that?” His voice was angry, and it was laced with something far worse. He was afraid.

  Will's eyes were scanning the cabin. He seemed to be ignoring his older brother's questions. He rested them on the curtain where Mary peeked, the flickering darkness keeping her hidden from the man's gaze. He finally answered, "Lost Garret an' Bluthe just North a Santa Fe. We hit a armored wagon loaded up for Salt Lake. Dozen men guarded it, but we laid 'em out." Will seemed satisfied with whatever he was trying to see and now looked at his brother before saying, "-that is...all but one." The words hung heavy in the air before he sighed, "He slipped off, high-tailed it to Santa Fe. We thought ourselves lucky. Took eleven of theirs for just two of ours. Lucky, till we popped the lockbox and found it loaded with Central Pacific bonds on their way to Governor Young." William had pulled out a small sack as he tried to fill and roll a cigarette in frozen hands. His fingers were clumsy, and after he spilled twice, Havish reached across, doing it for him while his brother's unfortunate words sank in.

  William sat back before he continued, "We'd been...curious about why a single wagon needed so much firepower. We'd only learned of it from a skirt Rory was sweet on."

  Reacting to the name, the girl perked up and started searching the cluster of men, trying to find the familiar form of Rory Talbot. It was easy to observe that when she found him, she became even more desperate to reveal herself, but she had learned long ago to never disobey her father. The twenty-year-old Rory stood closest to the two men's table. The handsome young man's face was now lined and hard from their journey. His eyes flicked around the room, and glanced over his shoulder every time a noise came from the other men near the fire. Usually a calm and easy-going youth, he was the best gunman among the gang, but even Rory was agitated about something.

  Watching the girl closely, it was easy to see that she became further distracted by the men around the fire and the body language Rory displayed. The men stood awkwardly around the hearth, seeming frozen in place, like statues trying their best not to move or draw attention to themselves. Mary squinted, trying to discover the source of the strange behavior as her father and uncle's conversation continued.

  "Skirt heard it from a John who frequented her nethers. Then passed it to Rory for a finder's fee. Told him where the wagon was headed, but left him with a warnin 'Never come between Mormons and money' she told him." A dry chuckle escaped from William, but Havish did not react. The older brother's face was cold with dread as the younger talked.

  "Well, the whore was right, a course. We would've taken it back after the fact if we could. We were expectin' a good haul, but what we found was...too much." His next sentence was slow as he punctuated each word, "Fifty thousand dollars in bonds." The words fell into empty air as no one made a sound.

  Havish Buetherd had finally reacted as he sat stunned at his little brother's words. Turning gears began to work behind wide eyes. He was likely thinking the same thing that William had months ago. 'It was enough money to retire as a king...but also enough to be hunted down and killed like a dog.' A favorite saying of the brothers. They used it often to remind them that there was always a bigger fish in the pond. That much money would not go unnoticed by the powers that ran this country.

  Havish groaned, "Will...don't tell me. What did y, no...no why are you here?" His voice had grown desperate for the answer. It wasn't yet an accusation, but William's face tightened all the same.

  The younger, knowing the promise they had made to each other, yet he had decided to break it by coming to Havish. The big man wasn't threatening his brother, but the younger Buetherd clenched his fists and looked over his shoulder to his men by the fire. Most were looking away into the flames, unable to meet his gaze, but only Rory looked to his leader and nodded.

  Havish had finished Will's cigarette and held it in limp hands. Will reached over and took the cigarette, lit it, and took a drag. Exhaling a thick cloud of smoke, William finally continued, "Well...we tried runnin' with it."

  Havish shook his head in disbelief, but before he could speak, William hurried on, "We thought we could make it south, ya know. Head straight for Mexico. There we'd find a buyer and retire kings. We hadn't made it two days before we saw a dust cloud trailin' us. The lone survivor had roused a posse out of Santa Fe. They chased our asses straight through close to three days, but we stayed ahead of em."

  William picked at something in his teeth before saying, "But someone must have wired ahead of us 'cause we found ourselves cut off. A larger group met us near Fort Bliss. Lost Watson, Bird, and a few hours later, Black Benny bled out. Posse from Santa Fe proved they were wet behind the ears. Run after a few dozen shots and one or two deaths. Group of Mexicans from Bliss...not so wet. We had to ride west."

  His eyebrows lifted before he said, "We hoped to end in Tijuana. We did manage to gain some distance, but another posse popped up pushin' us North. Ended up near Nevada after a few hard weeks. They'd lost our trail, and we decided to lay low. We were half dead on our feet and the horses near rode to death..."

  The men near the fire shifted restlessly, their body language showing their discomfort in retelling the story. Mary and Havish barely noticed as they were fully engrossed in William's tale. Five men they had known for years had died, just like that. One more was still unaccounted for.

  William tapped the ash off his cigarette. He had continued telling of their struggle to survive in Southern Utah and Nevada. "Didn’t know they’d sent someone else.”

  Havish seemed to feel what was coming as he asked, “Who?”

  William hesitated. Just a beat. “Marshall McConnell. He came west himself.”

  Havish swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

  “But he didn’t come alone,” William continued, voice lower now. “Four men rode with him. Bill West, that weaselly deputy of his. The Jones Brothers out of Salt Lake figured they were the ones who tracked us down."

  Havish frowned. “Only four men for your crew?... Who was the fifth?”

  A long silence stretched. Then William said the name like a curse. “Delaney.”

  Havish stared, like he’d heard a ghost’s name spoken aloud. “No. No, that’s not possible. Delaney doesn’t ride this side of the Mojave. It's why I'm a good two states over. So I'm far away from his allowed hunting grounds.”

  William licked his cracked lips before he said, "Thomas Delaney was number four." Havish went to interrupt again, but William raised his hands to silence his brother, saying, "I know! I know...shit, everyone knows. You do anythin' stupid near California's reach and they set Delaney loose. Only problem is, we'd stolen a lot of money... a King's ransom. The rules tend not to apply when you're stealin' from the ones who make em."

  Havish just sat in stunned silence. Everything he had been assuming had changed entirely. He whispered his following words, as if to keep from being overheard by the devil himself: "Delaney....Death's Hound?" Anger flashed as he said louder, "If the Hound hunted you, how...how are you still here if...if he came for you—" he looked over all the men, "How are any of you still here?"

  The small room rang with the accusation, but far too casually, Will just shrugged, "We ran like the coming of Christ was behind us. Pulled out every trick in the book. Tore through two wagon trains and a ranch. Swapped out horses every chance we could, rode 'em till they dropped, and stole more. Ran until we reached Colorado Springs just a few days back. Decided we had had enough. We just couldn't keep runnin' anymore. Two more of us died as we fought our way through Utah, stayed barely ahead of the five on our asses."

  Havish frowned, glancing at the cluster of men near the fire. “Two more died?”

  William didn’t look at him. “Decided we’d try layin’ a trap. Thought maybe we could take 'em by surprise, use the storm to even the odds.” He scratched at the table with his blackened nails, the sound dry and nervous. His gaze stayed fixed on the grain of the wood, anywhere but Havish’s face. “Stupid, really. Should’ve known better. He knew. Knew what desperate men might try.”

  His fingers drifted to the back of his head, massaging a tender spot behind his ear. “Gun to my skull was the only warnin’ I got. Delaney had peeled off days before and got ahead of us somehow, like he knew where we’d be. Like he’d been there the whole time.”

  His voice cracked, a whisper now. “He didn’t shoot. Didn’t say much at first. Just stood there, smiling like death in rags."

  At that, William finally glanced up. “I thought he’d come to finish us. I was ready to die in that moment. But instead…” He gave a bitter chuckle. “He offered me a deal.”

  Havish’s eyes narrowed, his body going still.

  William spoke faster now, as if trying to outrun the shame. “He said they didn’t just want the money. Not anymore. Said the mess we made was too big. Too loud. So they wanted something else, too.”

  Silence swallowed the room. Havish’s voice came low. “What?”

  William hesitated, then exhaled a trembling breath. “You.”

  Havish stared, unmoving. He seemed to have known what was coming as soon as that cursed name had left his brother's lips. Even so, years of brotherhood were hard to watch die before his eyes.

  William pressed on, voice hoarse. “Delaney’s been huntin’ ghosts for years. Told me he never believed you died in that fire. Said if I gave him the bonds and your location, they’d let me and the boys vanish. Said they’d call it clean. Say we were dead. Ghosts on the wind.”

  A long pause. “And you said yes.” It wasn’t a question. Havish’s voice was a dull thud, heavy and flat.

  William winced. “I didn’t want to, hell, I didn’t plan to. But the others… they were lookin to me, Havish. They were barely holdin’ together. Rory, Nate, the others... they’d follow me anywhere. And I... I was tryin’ to survive.”

  “You were tryin’ to disappear,” Havish said, eyes darkening. “Tryin’ to bury your sins in the snow.” William didn’t deny it.

  Silence tightened around them like a noose. The wind howled outside, but inside, no one moved. The men by the hearth, Mary, who was still hidden, and the brothers all sat silently.

  Then, a soft humming drifted from the men near the fire. The soft sound was so out of place in the charged air. Searching the men, Mary and Havish stared at a man crouched near the fire. Both seemed to realize at once that they didn't recognize this figure's garb. It had been more than a few years for them, but you grew to know everything about someone when you rode with them long enough.

  The humming stopped. A thick, breathless silence settled. The stranger crouched by the fire began to move slowly, deliberately. His gloved hands flexed open, then clenched shut... again, and again. The old leather creaked under the strain, louder than it had any right to be.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Mary’s breath caught in her throat. Havish rose halfway from his chair, eyes narrowing, fixating on the man. The others stepped back instinctively, even Rory, even the hardened killers in the gang, creating space around the stranger like leaves curling away from fire.

  Havish and Mary's eyes were finally opened, and they had just realized: this man didn’t belong. His coat was wrong. His gear was wrong. The dirt, the stink, the movement... none of it matched.

  He stood. The movement was smooth but unnatural, like joints too loose or well-oiled. He rose to his full height—not imposing physically, but his presence made the air feel thinner, like he was drinking the oxygen from the room. He turned and faced the cabin's other occupants.

  His face was still masked beneath a black scarf, his long dark hair matted and damp, his body swallowed in layered ponchos and rags. Brass glinted from the belts crisscrossing his chest. Heavy revolvers hung from low-slung holsters, front and back, riding like dead weight.

  Walking towards the table, the man grabbed the chair that Havish had sat in earlier.

  He dragged it across the wooden floor with an eerie calm, the legs scraping a long, splintering note through the silence. No one dared stop him. The sound stretched on, too loud, too long... until it ended with a jolt as the chair settled across from Havish at the table.

  The giant had begun to rise, but didn’t speak at the man's approach. His hand slid slowly toward the knife lying nearby. The stranger noticed.

  A flicker of motion, and the gun was already in his hand, a Colt revolver, polished but pitted, aimed squarely at Havish’s forehead.

  Havish froze halfway out of his chair, fingers inches from the kitchen knife. No one else in the room moved. Mary clutched one of her bed's furs with white-knuckled fingers.

  Then, just as suddenly, the weapon vanished. Holstered with the same fluid grace, like the draw had never happened. The man had wanted everyone to know: he could, at any moment, end any one of them.

  The man then sat grunting, his back to only Mary, facing Havish. He slowly removed his scarf, revealing a gaunt, almost spectral face. Hollow cheeks, cracked lips, pale skin like wax left too long in the sun. Greasy black hair clung to his temples, framing eyes red with burst vessels and ringed in sleepless bruises. The man looked like a corpse that had never quite stopped walking.

  He exhaled once, long and slow, then spoke, “May I?” The voice of the stranger was melodic. He sounded like he belonged singing tenor in a church choir, instead of facing down one of the most notorious gangs in the West. He pointed a gloved finger at the half-consumed cigarette hanging loosely in William's lips. William didn't move at first, eyes locked to the frail man before he jolted.

  “I... uh... sure,” William stammered.

  He made to roll another, but the man said, "It's fine. Yours will do." Disgust creeping on his face in realization, William still removed his cigarette and handed it over. "Thank you."

  The stranger took it with reverence, as if it were a communion wafer. He sniffed it, grimaced. “You always smoked this foreign garbage, William? Smells like cow vomit and sawdust. Back East, we had proper tobacco. Real smoke. Not this filth.” He took a slow drag anyway, holding the smoke in his lungs longer than seemed comfortable, then exhaled through his nose in a stream that curled like incense. His eyes never left Havish.

  From her corner, Mary couldn't see the man speaking clearly. In her thirteen years, she had never met a man who could intimidate her father and uncle. Both had commanded rooms filled with the roughest characters to step foot west of the civilized East. Yet, this man seemed to hold both giant humans captive with fear. At that moment, Mary knew, without understanding how, that this was the man her uncle feared more than death. Someone who could make William Buetherd betray everything he stood for.

  No one responded to his words, so the man spoke again, "Havish Buetherd, the Bloody Giant, as some men call you." He gestured, "Please, sit back down while we talk." The large man hesitated momentarily before sitting in his chair heavily, his body seeming to deflate as if he accepted whatever fate was approaching.

  The man nodded, "You know, Havish, Marshall McConnell has been searching for you for...some time. You may be the very first that ever managed to evade him." He looked around the cabin before saying, "It's sad, really. I can see the effort you've put into starting over here. This is a nice little spot you have for yourself. Decided you just wanted to try and have an honest life?" When Havish didn't respond, the man shrugged, "It's too bad that you didn't choose this path years ago, Giant." The stranger took another drag before continuing, "Before you signed your damnation in the blood of the innocent." The big man flinched at the words, but kept his silence.

  Delaney watched him closely before clicking his tongue and saying, "Fine. Don't want small talk? Down to business then, I guess." He took another drag from the cigarette and breathed a putrid cloud, speaking slowly, "August 12th, 1870, just past Fort Hall, did you and some of your men ambush a train of settlers making their way west?"

  Havish looked up slowly, eyes narrowing. “Thomas Arthur Delaney,” he said, as if tasting the name. “The child soldier who wouldn’t die. The traitor who shot a Senator in broad daylight. How the hell are you here?” Delaney tilted his head, amused. “You leave your cage, and word’s going to spread. You know that, right?” Havish continued. “When this gets back East, you won’t be the only swingin' boots. What happens to your handler then? To McConnell?”

  Delaney interrupted the threat softly but firmly. “Answer the question.” Something was wrong with his voice now. The smooth tenor stretched thin, like something beneath it was pushing forward. Havish blinked. Delaney’s eyes flickered briefly, pupils dilating like a predator’s in low light. “Did you lead a group of men who ambushed a wagon train of settlers near Fort Hall?” Delaney asked again, the calm gone now, replaced by something tighter. Coiled.

  Havish’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. His defiance was struggling to wage war with what his eyes had seen.

  Delaney leaned in closer, dragging the last of the cigarette and grinding it out on the table with slow, deliberate force. “Three survivors,” he said, his voice a ghost now. “Three girls, barely breathing when they were found. They told Marshall McConnell everything.”

  Havish looked away. “They told us about the days of torture. About the food and water stolen. About the children tied to stakes. About what your men did to them… and what you did.”

  Mary, watching through the curtain, went still at the man's words. Even her young mind understood what this man was getting at.

  Delaney’s tone softened again, disturbingly gentle. “I read the report. I saw the sketches. Some of the pieces couldn’t match the names. You know why that is, Giant?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Because your work made them unrecognizable.”

  Havish’s breathing had gone ragged. His shoulders trembled now, from fury, from shame, or both.

  “And yet,” Delaney whispered, “you let three of them live. Why?” The question was surgical. “Was it guilt? Mercy? Or did you look at those girls, bloodied and broken, and see something familiar? Something that looked like... her?” His eyes glanced towards the curtains, "After all, they were the same age as she is now...correct?"

  Havish wouldn't look up or meet the eyes of the man sent to judge him.

  A sneer spread on Delaney's face as he asked, "Did she know, Giant? Did your wife know what you are? What you did while away from her?"

  Delaney shook his head in mock disgust, but William finally spoke, interrupting the lawman's monologue, "What's the point of this, Delaney? We have our deal, and you have Havish and the money. Take him and..." The words fizzled out as Delaney's empty eyes swiveled to lock onto William.

  "You know what," Delaney sat forward in his chair, "how about a subject change? Any guesses, Havish, on what conditions your brother demanded of me to lead me here?" Havish's stricken face turned to stare at his brother. The confirmation, having finally been spoken by both men, that he had indeed betrayed him for something. "I told him that he and his men could disappear in exchange for your location and the money they had taken. That I would pass on that I had caught them and killed them high in the Rockies." He snorted, saying, "Truthfully, I thought he would spit in my face. Thought I would need to spend a few days alone with him to get the information I wanted."

  Delaney's pupils seemed to widen as they drank in the growing dread in William's face. The corners of his lips were twitching more as he spoke, and his hands slowly started to flex and clench, flex and clench. His fingers were cracking like the logs in the fire from the intensity of his movement. "Instead, your dear little brother had a counteroffer for me. The greedy William wanted all the promises of freedom, plus a little...tiny...bonus." The lawman's breathing grew quicker from his own words, "Can you guess what that was, Giant? He wanted a promise. A promise that I would leave your daughter-"

  William stood suddenly, his chair clattering back. “Liar!” he shouted, eyes wild. “You damned liar, I never said that!” But he didn’t look at Delaney when he said it. He looked at Havish, the truth plain as day on his face.

  Delaney raised a brow and gestured lightly. “You didn’t say it in those words, of course. But you asked me to leave her here. You insisted she wouldn’t be found, reported, or taken.” He shrugged. “And I agreed. Why wouldn’t I? I have no interest in the girl. But you… you seemed very interested.”

  His voice sharpened. “Why do you think that is, Giant?”

  Havish’s eyes locked on his brother, searching, desperate, begging, “No,” he whispered. “Tell me it isn’t true.”

  Delaney sighed dramatically, as though bored with the whole affair. “Maybe he just wanted company. Or maybe… maybe it’s because she looks like her mother.”

  The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Delaney turned his body to face Mary's position more. Still, his eyes never left his prey, and he said softly, “I’m sure you can guess his intentions, given your colorful family history.”

  And then Havish moved. Faster than anyone had seen him move in years. His massive hands shot across the table, but not towards the lawman. Instead, grabbing William by the throat and shirt, and lifting the tall man like a rag doll.

  William gasped, struggling, eyes wide with panic as Havish’s face contorted in pure rage. “I could have forgiven you!” Havish roared, voice shaking the walls. “I could’ve forgiven you for betrayin’ me, for sendin’ me to die! But my daughter?” He slammed his brother back against the table, spit flying, muscles trembling with fury. “Your niece?”

  William clawed at his brother’s wrists, choking, gasping. “You couldn’t have her mother, so now you come for her? Is that it?!” Havish’s voice cracked, his whole body shaking with fury and heartbreak. “God, did you even try to fight? Or did you lead them here, hand in hand with that monster, so you could finally take what you always wanted?”

  William tried to speak, but no words came. Just the frantic gasping of a man who knew the end was near.

  Delaney watched it all with mesmerized interest, like a patron at the theater of his favorite opera. His eyes flicked to the gang huddled by the fire, several beginning to stir, but one look from him froze them again. All except one.

  Rory stepped forward, voice shaking but loud enough to cut through the choking sounds of violence. “Havish, get—!”

  He didn’t finish. Delaney’s revolver was already out, aimed square at Rory’s chest. The movement had been too fast to follow, too fluid. Like he'd known the boy would step forward before he did. Rory froze mid-step, eyes locked on the barrel aimed at his heart.

  Delaney didn’t speak. He just tilted his head, a gesture that somehow said: Sit back down or die.

  Rory held his ground. “He’s killing him,” Rory spat, voice cracking. “You had a deal! Do something, lawman!”

  That’s when Delaney finally smiled truthfully. Not the faint twitch from before, but a full, terrible grin, teeth gleaming in the firelight like a predator finally baring its fangs. His eyes reflected nothing, having become voids of pure darkness.

  He spoke gently, almost lovingly. “Be that as it may, my dear Rory… I would never rob a parent of the right to protect their child.”

  Rory’s fury broke like a wave against stone. The look in the man's eyes robbed him of all courage. Another man grabbed his arm, pulling him back, whispering urgently in his ear. Others followed. None dared challenge the Hound.

  Delaney again holstered his weapon, without looking, and resumed watching.

  Havish didn’t even notice the commotion. His massive hands were locked around his brother’s throat now, both thumbs digging into William’s neck as he pushed him across the table. William’s face had turned a violent purple, blood streaming from his mouth where he’d bitten through his lip.

  Mary was trembling behind the curtain, and couldn’t look away as her father killed one of the few men she had always loved, still shaken at the revelation of his deal with Delaney.

  Havish sobbed as he crushed the life from the man he once called brother. “I trusted you…” He growled. “I loved you…” William flailed, eyes bulging, legs kicking uselessly as he tried to break free. Before his eyes finally began to roll up into his head. Then, with a sharp, sickening crack, Havish twisted. William's body convulsed once, then slumped in Havish’s arms, dead weight now.

  The only sound afterward was the wracking sobs of Havish’s and the low, melodic humming from the man across the table.

  Delaney. He stood now, hands flexing rhythmically at his sides as he hummed some ancient, mournful tune. The gang by the fire shrank away from him as his black eyes again found them.

  Rory turned toward him, eyes blazing. “You said we had a deal! That McConnell would let us go!”

  Delaney’s humming stopped. He tilted his head again, like a curious animal examining something beneath it. “And what,” he said softly, “ever made you think the Marshall knew anything about our arrangement?” The men stared at him, stunned. Delaney laughed. Not loud, but cruel, unhinged. “McConnell gave me a goal and a direction. That’s all. He let me off the leash near Beaver and told me to bring back the money… and anyone worth bringing back.”

  He looked around at the horrified faces. Blood dripped from Williams' open mouth onto the floorboards in the stunned silence. “I left him a note in Colorado Springs. Told him I’d found you. He should be along shortly, assuming you last that long.”

  And then, quieter, almost to himself: “Though I think that won't be the case.” He grinned again. A terrible thing, inhuman, like his mouth was stretching farther than it should. “Woe to he who sows death and misery,” Delaney whispered, his voice lilting into rhythm, “for it is they who shall harvest and feast upon the bitter fruit.” Then came a pause, hollow, chilling. Before he finished, “Go before me, kindred souls… prepare me a place in the eternal flame.”

  The room had become a tomb. No one moved. Even the fire seemed to shrink.

  Havish’s sobs had faded. His eyes were drying now, deadened. He reached out slowly, bracing himself on the table. And then he hurled the table at Delaney with all his might.

  Havish sprang forward right behind it to try to tackle the lawman. Delaney half spun out of the way, only the corner of the table connecting, but it was enough to cause him to stumble. The larger man closed quickly, attempting to slam into Delaney's lower back. Even as he stumbled, Delaney twisted his right arm, bending behind his back like a dancer. His revolver almost touched Havish's mouth as the Colt fired point-blank into his face. The small room amplified the terrible scream of gunfire. Blood and gore burst out and sprayed across the cabin as the man collided with Delaney. The lawman barely moved as the large man hit and crumbled, like a fallen tree. The young girl had pulled back behind the curtain and hadn't seen the shot before chaos erupted.

  Everything moved at blinding speed; It would have been impossible to follow without the current enhanced viewing. The men near the fire had only sat motionless for a second after Havish had attacked, but the momentary lapse cost them as they tried to draw and fire on Delaney. Most panicked and began to fire, only heartbeats behind Delaney, not heeding those around them. Bullets tore through the cabin, far more hitting their friends, but more than one made contact with the lawman.

  None of them slowed Delaney down as his second revolver spat death into their packed group. Gunsmoke poured through the cabin as the firearms erupted. Delaney moved his body like an eel, bullets that should have laid him low, barely clipping or not hitting at all, while each of his own found more than one body as the gang was stacked nearly on top of each other. Bursts of gore sprayed the wall, announcing every shot that landed.

  Rory dove to the side, whipping his gun up and managing to fire a shot from his knees. His shot punched through Delaney’s hip, staggering him — but not stopping the hound. A heartbeat later, a round blew Rory’s eye out the back of his skull and sprayed the wall behind him. Another bullet tore through a man's throat, causing him to trip backward and fall sprawling into the open fire behind him. His wet screams wailed in agony, as he tried to right himself, but was soon pinned underneath another who was cut down.

  Only a few more shots flew towards Delaney, but none of them came close to the bleeding man. Smoke blanketed the tight space, its coverage as thick as the winter storm outside.

  As the execution had happened, the barely alive Havish had crawled towards Mary's drawn curtain. His large head was missing a portion of his cheek and jaw from where the bullet exited. His tongue spilled from the gushing wound as he pushed his body towards Mary's hiding spot, a gurgling croak all he could manage to try and draw his child's attention.

  Mary had sat petrified by the eruption of violence. Falling from her bed and covering her ears with shaking hands. With courage beyond her years, she opened her eyes and saw her father's visage under the smoke. Havish reached a shaky hand and pointed at Mary; rather, he pointed right behind Mary.

  Her face lost all color at the sight of her father's gruesome injury. Almost fainting, she managed to look to where her father's hand pointed and found his gun belt lying near her on the shelves. She had been getting familiar with it over the past few weeks and had forgotten to put it back.

  She looked back at her father, whose eyes had begun to lose focus. Mary knew what she needed to do. Steeling herself, she grabbed the gun and crawled to her father on hands and knees—the whistling of bullets all around her.

  Havish's hand had fallen, reaching out towards his daughter. Mary tried desperately to push the weapon into his outstretched hand, but her father's large fingers did not move to grab the gun. She pushed the weapon into his hand repeatedly, before her young mind seemed to understand why he didn't move.

  Mary screamed, "No. NO. PAPA! PAPA MOVE! DON'T GO..." she cried in denial and agony at the loss of her last living parent. This was the man who had protected her when her mother died, who played silly games with her, and had made sure she was cared for. Until tonight, she had seen him as the perfect man, willing to do whatever must be done for his family.

  The blood bath had lasted for less than thirty heartbeats. The once peaceful valley was now home to a massacre. The bodies of slain men lay piled atop one another, bathing in blood pooling across the ground. Smoke obscured much of the remaining two occupants' vision, but as it slowly cleared, the girl saw two eyes staring back at her. Her father's killer stood less than five feet away, staring into the eyes of the kneeling Mary.

  Blood was spilling from multiple wounds to his arms and legs, soaking through the filthy, ragged clothes he wore. The wounds that pocked his body didn't slow him as, with relaxed grace, he holstered one empty gun and slowly loaded the other, beginning again to hum his haunting melody.

  Red-shot eyes, filled with tears, focused on the eyes of malicious death. Fear slowly gave way to rage on the young girl's face, causing the grinning man to react by finally singing his song out loud. His beautiful voice drifted through the smoke.

  And am I born to die?

  To lay this body down!

  And must my trembling spirit fly

  Into a world unknown?

  The song seemed to stoke more fury within the young girl, but she couldn't move. The haunting tune was barely able to reach her ringing ears, but the terrible sacrilege of this man singing a sacred hymn caused her to sit in the wreckage of her life and listen to the serpent-

  A land of deepest shade,

  Unpierced by human thought;

  The dreary regions of the dead,

  Where all things are forgot!

  Soon as from earth I go,

  What will become of me?

  Eternal happiness or woe

  Must then my portion be!

  Waked by the trumpet sound,

  I from my grave shall rise;

  And see the Judge with glory crowned,

  And see the flaming skies!

  As the song's final verse ended, the spell seemed to break, and the rage boiled within the small woman, causing her to act recklessly.

  A small but practiced hand gripped her father's gun and swung it towards Delaney's head, aiming for the only target she could see clearly through the smoke — the gleam of his eyes beneath the brim of his hat as the killer's gun snapped to meet her challenge. Gunfire once again rang out. Neither moved for a few breaths, but Mary lowered her weapon first. Delaney soon followed. A look of consternation was plastered on his face. A veil of red lowered over his face from a small hole between his eyes. As his smile fell, his body soon followed. His hat lay on the ground by his head, painted with the gore of his missing skull.

  Mary sat in shocked silence, the rage having fled as soon as she had pulled the trigger. More than likely, she assumed she would be joining her father, but now she sat alone in a cabin filled with the dead in the middle of a snowstorm in the Colorado Mountains. She began to shake, sobs wracking her small form. She dropped her father's weapon. Her hands cupped her young face as she sobbed. She screamed incoherently over her loss, as she curled up next to his body.

  A few minutes passed as a fire began to catch in the far corner. The man who had fallen in had caused the flame to climb up his body, and it was now catching hold of the cabin's interior. Voices and footsteps could be heard coming from outside the cabin. The door began to shake, and loud banging accompanied the sobbing. The girl didn't notice or care as she curled tighter to her father's side.

  Just before the door crashed inward, everything within the structure froze. The smoke sat still, the fire lay unmoving, and the young girl was silent, but above all else, Thomas Arthur Delaney lay face down in his blood. One of the West's most prolific killers, dead at the age of twenty-eight. Having lived a life of constant misery and bloodshed. Of all of the events of this terrible night, the one that made no sense to anyone who heard the story was how the man, who was feared from California to the Mississippi River, died on this cold night. Death's Hound, slain by a child? How was it possible?

  "Controller, reset playback..."