Rock Springs, Wyoming, 1881

  The town wasn't large. Over a decade ago, it had been nothing more than a small stagecoach stop. But ever since the discovery of coal mines, settlers had gradually trickled in. Most were miners, along with merchants who provided them with food, clothing, and shelter.

  Here, you could find everything typical of a late-19th-century Western American town—general stores, a sheriff's office, saloons, and even women who offered "special services" to the miners.

  Night had already fallen over the town, but the saloon at its center was brightly lit.

  "Who's next?"

  A burly man with a stubbled beard yanked a sharp dagger from where it had been embedded in the table and swept all the money toward himself with his other hand.

  Blood dripped from the blade, and its previous owner—clutching his injured fingers—slunk out of the saloon in frustration. He needed to hurry to the general store and hope for the best. Losing a few dollars was the least of his worries; tetanus or infection could kill him soon enough.

  They had just been playing a game called "Knife Between Fingers."

  "Johnny, your drink." The saloon owner stepped out from behind the counter and handed the big man a glass of whiskey. "You've made enough side cash. No one here's a match for you."

  The white miners in the crowd exchanged glances, but none stepped forward. A few whistled and jeered instead.

  Johnny took another swig of his drink, then let his gaze roam insolently around the saloon before settling on a group of Chinese miners huddled in the corner.

  There were even more Chinese than white men in this town, but they worked longer hours in the mines. During their brief breaks, they preferred to stay in their own living quarters with their countrymen. Even when they occasionally visited the saloon, the Chinese miners kept to themselves, sitting quietly in the corners and speaking softly among themselves.

  Their behavior now perfectly matched Johnny's expectations.

  They stared blankly in his direction, their eyes hollow.

  "Johnny, you're not gonna take money from these 'yellow mules,' are ya?" A white miner behind Johnny laughed crudely in a thick accent.

  Johnny snorted dismissively.

  The Chinese miners lowered their heads—all except one.

  A young miner stood up. His torso was nearly bare, covered only by a coal-stained burlap vest. His lean, muscular frame gleamed bronze under the saloon's lights.

  He slung a cloth bag over his shoulder and turned toward the door.

  The laughter behind Johnny grew even more brazen.

  "Hey! You!" Johnny called out, annoyed.

  The young man ignored him and kept walking. A white miner lunged forward, trying to grab him.

  But the young man suddenly stopped, sidestepping slightly. The miner stumbled past, smacking his head against the doorframe.

  "Sir, I need to go back and make flatbread. I don't have time for games." The words were spoken in flawless English, polite and refined—unexpected from someone who looked like him.

  Johnny blinked, then quickly regained his composure. "C'mon, kid, play a round. It'll be quick. If you don't got money, you can owe me. Y'all are used to that, ain't ya? Hahaha!"

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  The cloth bag was set down on the table as the young man turned around. His features were sharp, his brows like slashed swords. There was fire in his heart and light in his eyes.

  "Uncle, watch my flour for me," he said softly.

  "Jianqiu, don't!" An old man with a white beard, holding a smoking pipe, shook his head at him in Chinese. "This man's from the South. They say he was a famous cowboy once, and now he's a gunslinger under Sheriff Morris. No one for miles can match him with a knife."

  Chen Jianqiu seemed not to hear. He walked straight to the table and sat across from Johnny.

  Johnny pulled out ten dollars and slapped it on the table.

  "Kid, beat me, and this ten bucks is yours."

  The men behind him stared hungrily. Someone swallowed hard—miners only made forty dollars a month.

  Johnny spread one hand flat on the table and began stabbing the dagger between his fingers with the other. The blade danced effortlessly, weaving like a butterfly through flowers, too fast to follow.

  A pocket watch lay on the table, its second hand ticking away.

  The dagger stopped, buried deep in the wood.

  "Twenty seconds!" The white miners gasped.

  Chen Jianqiu's expression didn't change.

  He fished around in his pocket and slowly pulled out a quarter, placing it on the table. With his other hand, he pulled the dagger free and hovered it over his fingers, hesitating as if unsure where to start.

  The crowd erupted in crude laughter.

  "Scared, chickie? Never held a knife before?"

  "Skinny pig, go home and play with your—"

  "I'll raise the bet too, hahaha!"

  The dagger came down, landing between thumb and forefinger, then lifted and shifted behind the thumb.

  The laughter grew louder and more vicious. The Chinese miners in the corner bowed their heads even lower. They had grown used to all kinds of humiliation since coming to America. They endured.

  Johnny narrowed his eyes. He glanced at the pocket watch—ten seconds had passed. He was already thinking of how best to humiliate this upstart.

  Chen Jianqiu rolled his neck and loosened his shoulders.

  Suddenly, the muscles in his knife arm tensed. The dagger flashed into motion. The crowd barely saw his movements—only heard the sharp thunk of the blade striking wood over and over.

  By the time anyone processed what had happened, the dagger stood embedded in the center of the table.

  The saloon fell dead silent—until someone staring at the pocket watch called out the time.

  "Fifteen seconds!"

  Everyone was stunned.

  "No way! This chink cheated!" A white miner shoved forward, inspecting the table. But the fresh knife marks proved Chen Jianqiu's strikes had been both swift and precise.

  Chen Jianqiu's face remained unreadable. He stood, picked up his quarter, then took the ten-dollar bill from Johnny's pile. He waved it at Johnny before tucking it into his vest. "Thanks, brother."

  Johnny's face flushed red—whether from liquor or fury, it was hard to tell. He grabbed Chen Jianqiu's wrist.

  "Hey, pal. How 'bout another round?"

  Chen Jianqiu paused. He glanced at Johnny and the disgruntled white miners behind him, then at the pocket watch.

  Suddenly, he smiled.

  "Alright, sir. But I can't stay long. I've got breakfast to prepare by nine."

  Johnny reached for the dagger—only to find his wrist locked in an iron grip.

  Chen Jianqiu's smile widened. "Let's make it more interesting."

  "Let's bet a hand."

  A shadow flickered. Another dagger appeared on the table. Johnny instinctively checked his belt—his sheath was empty.

  Chen Jianqiu pulled the blade free and slashed. A strip of fabric appeared in his hand like magic. Its original owner—the loudmouthed miner—stared at his now-sleeveless arm, too furious to speak.

  The young man tied the cloth over his eyes, placed his left hand on the table, and began stabbing between his fingers—fast and precise.

  After two strikes, he flipped the dagger into the air, snatched the other blade from the table, and continued without missing a beat.

  The daggers moved faster and faster, until they were nothing but blurs, dancing across the wood.

  The crowd stood frozen, mesmerized—until both daggers thudded into the table in front of Johnny.

  No one even checked the watch. Chen Jianqiu removed his blindfold and gestured for Johnny to take his turn.

  Johnny's face had turned purple. Trembling, he pulled a dagger free, tied the cloth over his eyes—

  A grunt of pain. Sure enough, the blade was lodged in his hand, blood welling from the wound.

  Chen Jianqiu stood, grabbed the other dagger, and walked up to the loudmouth miner. "You. You wanted to raise the bet? Or was it you who called me a 'yellow mule'?"

  The miner shook his head frantically—but a flash of steel later, a deep gash split the back of his hand.

  He howled in pain.

  Chen Jianqiu didn't spare him another glance. He hoisted his sack of flour, whistled, and strode out of the saloon—unchallenged—leaving the crowd in stunned silence.

  A hazy mist hung over Rock Springs' streets, thick with the scent of coal dust.

  Chen Jianqiu stood outside the saloon, already calculating how to spend his ten-dollar windfall—when someone bumped into him from behind.

  He spun around to see a black miner swaying drunkenly. The man straightened up sheepishly, adjusted Chen Jianqiu's crooked vest, and patted his shoulder.

  "Sorry, brother. Had too much. Didn't see ya there."

  Chen Jianqiu smiled, signaling it was fine. The man staggered off.

  But seconds later, Chen Jianqiu's hand flew to his chest.

  The ten dollars was gone.

  "Damn it—get back here!"