Chen Jianqiu was a time traveler.

  When he woke up, he was lying on an old train from San Francisco to Salt Lake City. Later, he was tossed into a coal car in Salt Lake City, hauled over mountains and valleys until he arrived in Rock Springs.

  The Transcontinental Railroad, built with the blood and sweat of Chinese laborers, was fit to carry coal—but the workers themselves were treated no better than cargo.

  In the month since his arrival, Chen Jianqiu could only recall recent events. Why he had come to America, or how this body of his had acquired its skills, remained a mystery.

  He had taken a job as a miner in Rock Springs' coal mine. The mine owner, a seemingly kind old man, paid him twenty dollars a month for twelve-hour workdays.

  Those ten dollars were two weeks' wages!

  Chen Jianqiu tossed the sack of flour to the elderly Chinese man who had just stepped out of the saloon. "Uncle, do me another favor," he said before sprinting after the black man.

  Seeing the pursuit, the black man dropped his drunken act and bolted.

  After rounding a corner, Chen Jianqiu realized his mistake. Letting a black man vanish into the night was like releasing a chameleon into the forest—even if he crouched in a corner, he'd be nearly impossible to spot.

  The haze lingered, and the unlit streets swallowed the fugitive whole.

  "Damn it!" Chen Jianqiu cursed. Spotting a hitching post by the road, he kicked it in frustration.

  A dull thud—the post didn't budge. Hopping on one foot, he clutched his injured toes and swore.

  Moonlight spilled onto the street, mingling with the dim glow from windows to form hazy patches of light.

  Then, at the corner of an alley, a crescent-shaped flash of white appeared.

  The black man grinned.

  "Stop!"

  With a roar, Chen Jianqiu lunged forward, his injury forgotten.

  Realizing his mistake, the black man clamped his mouth shut and took off again. But this time, his pursuer had his mark. The chase was on.

  As the gap between them narrowed, the black man rounded a corner, vaulted a fence, and tumbled into the backyard of a large house.

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  Chen Jianqiu followed without hesitation. He recognized the place—it belonged to the seemingly benevolent mine owner. The yard was enclosed on three sides by walls, with only the low fence offering escape. The black man had trapped himself.

  Cornered near a window, the black man turned and shrugged.

  "Hey, brother, why you chasin' me?"

  "Then why'd you run?" Chen Jianqiu's smile returned. He cracked his knuckles.

  The black man's expression shifted. Adopting a boxer's stance, he threw a couple of mock jabs. "Listen, man, don't mess with me. I know how to—"

  His words were cut short by a fist to the face. Staggering back, he collapsed onto his rear.

  Chen Jianqiu stepped forward, grabbed his collar, and demanded, "Money?"

  Dazed, the black man surrendered, pulling the stolen bill from his pocket.

  Just as Chen Jianqiu tucked it away—

  BANG!

  The back door burst open. A figure tumbled out, crashing to the ground. Another followed—a young man clutching an axe, a bow slung across his back.

  "Your friend?" Chen Jianqiu pinned the black man down and whispered.

  The black man shook his head frantically.

  "Colonel Robert! Remember this axe?" The shadow raised the weapon. "Did you think hiding in this town would spare you from the blood and fire of divine justice?"

  By the light from the house, Chen Jianqiu recognized the fallen man—the mine owner.

  The old man wiped blood from his lips, his usual kindness replaced by a sneer. "I've killed too many Indian mongrels. Let me think… which one are you? Ah—Crazy Horse's bastard?"

  The young Native American stepped into the light, trembling as he lifted the axe.

  "Or you could drop it and run," the mine owner taunted. "The sheriff will be here soon. You'll die just like your fool father."

  BANG!

  A bullet hole appeared in the old man's forehead. Blood gushed as he toppled backward, eyes wide with disbelief.

  Another figure emerged from the house—Sheriff Morris, smoke curling from the barrel of his revolver. A mysterious box dangled from his other hand.

  Before the Native youth could react, a blow sent him crashing face-first to the ground.

  The sheriff swiftly bound him, then staged the scene—emptying the revolver and pressing it into the unconscious man's grip.

  Then he drew his own gun.

  Only now did Chen Jianqiu hear the crackling of flames. Smoke and fire already licked the second-floor windows.

  "Oh no!" Chen Jianqiu and the black man exchanged glances—time to go.

  But a familiar voice rang out.

  "You two in there—hands up, come out."

  Johnny, now flanked by four rifle-toting deputies, blocked the exit. Three barrels aimed unwaveringly at their hiding spot.

  Trapped, the pair emerged with raised hands.

  "Boss, what's the story?" Johnny asked Morris.

  "This Indian broke in, stole the old man's gun, murdered him in cold blood, then set the house ablaze," the sheriff declared, descending the steps with his box. "I was too late."

  Johnny hesitated only a moment before barking orders. One deputy hauled the unconscious Native away.

  "And these two?" Johnny jerked his chin toward Chen Jianqiu and the black man.

  "Accomplices. Take them."

  The black man's eyes bulged. Chen Jianqiu barely stifled his disbelief.

  A black man and a Chinese—acting as lookouts for a Native in a white mine owner's backyard? Who'd believe that?

  But resistance was futile. A rifle jabbed into Chen Jianqiu's back as rough hands bound his wrists.

  Johnny shoved him forward, grinning. "Boy, you know what we do to criminals here? I'll take real good care of you."

  He fished out the ten-dollar bill, slapped it against Chen Jianqiu's cheek, and laughed.

  As some deputies roused neighbors to fight the fire, the rest loaded the prisoners into a wagon bound for the sheriff's office.