"Give it here, boy," the leader spat, reaching for a revolver.

"Just wondering if Dutch’s 'plan' involves us getting shot in the front or the back this time," Arthur replied, his voice a low rumble.

"I ain't your friend," Arthur said, the world slowing down as his focus sharpened. "And I'm making it my business."

"That's enough," Arthur said, his hand hovering inches above the worn grip of his Cattleman Revolver. "The boy's done nothing to you."

Suddenly, the swinging doors of the saloon burst open. A young man, barely old enough to shave, stumbled out into the street, clutching a satchel to his chest as if it held his own heart. Behind him, three men with the cruel eyes of O’Driscolls followed.

They were meant to be laying low after the disaster in Colter, but the gang was a starving animal, and a starving animal eventually stops hiding and starts hunting. Dutch had his eyes on a Cornwall train—a big score that promised enough gold to buy them a one-way ticket to a life that didn’t involve sleeping on damp bedrolls.

The O’Driscoll turned, a sneer twisting his face. "This ain't your business, friend."

Arthur didn’t look at Hosea. He didn't have to. He stood up, the spurs on his boots giving a rhythmic clink-clink that seemed to silence the chatter of the town. He wasn't looking for a fight, but in 1899, the fight usually found you first.