Blake rested his hand on his service revolver, weighing the morality of gunning Boone down on the courthouse steps, when he heard the news. Boone didn’t have the cash. He possessed neither valuables sufficient to pawn nor property to offer a money lender. By the end of the day, during which he had performed some truly fantastic work, Mr. Bishop began questioning whether he would ever receive payment. Consequently, the other side of the judge’s punishment fell upon Boone. He would serve a month on a chain gang, performing hard labour for the city of Victoria. His wages would be offset against the debts owed to the Adelphi Saloon and Mr. Bishop.

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His first victim stood blind drunk, pissing on the side of the trading post. Boone simply strolled up behind him, placed the pistol barrel to his nape, and pulled the trigger.

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Burton tried to speak, to beg for mercy, but his throat had clamped shut, parched and brittle as ancient parchment left too long in the sun. His voice only clawed its way back in a ragged, desperate croak the instant Boone pressed the knife down against the flesh of his right leg, just above the knee, and the first thin, crimson line of blood welled up, hot and sticky, tracing a lazy rivulet down the pale skin. Boone used that old Bowie for everything—carving kindling, gutting game, scraping hides—and its edge had gone so dull from endless abuse that it resembled a rusted sawblade more than a blade. He had to lean in with his full, heavy weight, all two hundred pounds of muscle and grit, to force the tip through the tough outer layer of Burton's skin, the metal grinding audibly against the resistance like a dull file on bone.

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A few of the abandoned men, their wills broken, staggered blindly after Boone and Burton once they finally realized the terrible deception. But in tragically little time, they were completely snow-blind and hopelessly lost, staggering aimlessly away from the faint path and each other as the relentless, creeping tendrils of hypothermia finally took hold of their core. Some paltry articles of their clothing would eventually be found near the trail once a spring thaw swept through the valley, but of their frozen, anonymous bodies, there was never any trace. Whether they were claimed by the brutal, indifferent cold, by a silent return of the vengeful Diggers, or by some starved, scavenging beast of the high mountains will forever remain a chilling mystery. Even their names have been tragically lost to the ravages of time, with only the vaguest, most unflattering descriptions of them surviving in the old, faded complaints filed by the victims who once sought their deaths.

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When the sun finally rose, he methodically availed himself of the dead's belongings, precisely as he always did, but for the first time, he could not bring himself to look directly at the body. Usually, he felt absolutely no sting of remorse or burning shame—he had successfully convinced himself that he was entirely immune to such weak human frailties—but now, a strange, heavy guilt sat like a cold stone deep in his gut. He had obscenely gorged himself in a terrifying, unholy communion that had lasted throughout the entire night, returning over and over to tear more flesh from the cooling corpse and fully sate his insatiable hunger. He had eaten until he was bloated, profoundly sickened, and deeply ashamed.

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She fought him off when she could, her arms straining against his weight, her breath hitching as she prayed for him to collapse into a drunken stupor. On good nights, he’d pass out mid-act, his body slumping onto her like a felled oak, his breath hot and sour against her neck. She would shove him aside, her muscles trembling, and crawl to the edge of the bed, curling into herself to escape the memory of his touch. On bad nights, she endured the full brutality of his lust, his fingers digging into her flesh, leaving crescent-shaped bruises that bloomed like dark flowers across her arms and thighs.

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He’d deliberately pick fights with men leaving the tavern, a predator stalking his prey. Experience had honed his dangerous edge; he was now a skilled brawler, a calculated bully, and stronger than any man had a right to be. The young women of the town, caught in the romantic fantasy of taming a wild man, were drawn to him. But at home, the attention he received was far less flattering. His father refused to speak to him, fearing his own rage, and his mother wept to see the man her son had become.

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The room fell silent, the other patrons—hard men with scarred hands and wary eyes—sensing the storm about to break.Dutch rose slowly, his shadow swallowing the light as he turned to face Boone. In his hand was a Bowie knife, its blade glinting like a sliver of moonlight. Boone, his revolver waving wildly, grinned—a crooked, feral slash that promised blood. The sight of Dutch, a mountain of a man, would have stopped most in their tracks, but Boone was no ordinary man.

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