The faint light from the basement's small skylight gradually dimmed, fading from dull yellow to complete darkness.

  The basement door opened once. A guard they hadn't seen before came down, hung a dim lantern, and tossed each prisoner a rock-hard piece of bread.

  "Sweet dreams on your last night," the guard sneered before slamming the door shut—and taking the ladder with him.

  Chen Jianqiu lay motionless on the bench, his ears tuned to the sounds above.

  At first, there were voices—chatting about everything from a brawl between two idiots at a nearby farm to the mysterious new widow in town. Then someone suggested grabbing a drink, and the voices faded, leaving only the sound of pacing footsteps.

  Eventually, even those stopped.

  Chen Jianqiu sat up and tapped the iron bars lightly, signaling Shawn to get to work.

  After some fumbling, a soft click—the lock gave way. True to his craft, Shawn soon had all three cell doors open, along with their shackles, clattering to the floor.

  Shawn climbed onto Flying Bird's shoulders and pushed against the basement door.

  No luck. It was locked from the outside.

  Chen Jianqiu patted Shawn's leg, motioning for him to step down, then whispered a plan to the other two.

  Upstairs, in the sheriff's office

  The lone guard on duty had his feet propped on the desk, grumbling over a newspaper about his so-called "brothers-in-arms."

  Always left with the dirty work. Never invited to the fun.

  Then—BANG!—a noise from the basement.

  "Goddamn animals," the guard muttered, yanking a whip from the drawer. He grabbed the lantern, ready to teach those bastards a final lesson.

  He unlocked the basement door, lowered the ladder, and peered down, lantern in hand.

  "Alright, maggots, let's see how real prisoners—"

  A pair of wide, white eyes and a crescent-shaped grin flashed in the darkness.

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  The guard was yanked down before he could scream. One man pinned his legs, another locked his arms, and a third smothered his mouth and nose.

  After a few minutes of thrashing, he went limp.

  Flying Bird checked his pulse, then nodded at Chen Jianqiu—dead. They dragged the body into a cell and laid it on the bench.

  Chen Jianqiu crept up the ladder, then edged along the wall to the stairwell. Peering up, he listened.

  Silence. The sheriff's office was truly empty.

  Were the West's outlaws getting soft? Or were the miners in this town just that obedient?

  He glanced back. Flying Bird was right behind him.

  "Let's go," the Lakota whispered.

  "Where's Shawn?" Chen Jianqiu realized the black man was missing.

  They retreated downstairs to find the sheriff's office door wide open. Shawn was crouched by a safe behind the desk, ear pressed to the dial, fingers turning it slowly.

  "What the hell are you doing? Move!" Flying Bird hissed, reaching for him.

  "Shhh!" Shawn pressed a finger to his lips.

  Both men looked to Chen Jianqiu—somehow, he'd become their unspoken leader.

  After a beat, Chen Jianqiu held up a hand. "Gather guns and ammo," he told Flying Bird. "We leave in five."

  Flying Bird nodded and slipped away.

  Chen Jianqiu stepped closer to Shawn. "You sure you can crack that?"

  No answer. Shawn was laser-focused on the safe's mechanism. Then—click—the first number aligned.

  *19th-century security. Pathetic.*

  Chen Jianqiu turned to the desk, rifling through drawers.

  The left one held a bottle of bourbon and a pack of smokes. He pocketed the cigarettes, uncorked the bottle, and inhaled—caramel, oak, Kentucky pride. He resisted the urge to drink and moved on.

  The middle drawer was stuffed with newspaper clippings. The California Star. The Nevada Herald. All spewing the same venom: Chinese stealing jobs. Drive them out. One cartoon showed a top-hatted white man kicking a queue-wearing laborer.

  Since when was hard work a crime?

  He slammed the drawer shut and yanked open the last one.

  Inside lay a notebook. As he picked it up, a photo slipped out—a group of men outside a saloon. Front and center: the mine owner and Sheriff Morris, decades younger, in uniform.

  "So they've known each other all along." He tucked the photo back just as a metallic clang echoed—Shawn had cracked the safe.

  "Find anything?"

  Shawn shrugged, handing over a few dollar bills—maybe ten total. Chen Jianqiu didn't take them, just stared.

  Sweating, Shawn produced a deerskin pouch. "Uh, and this."

  Still, Chen Jianqiu said nothing.

  "Boss, I swear, that's it!" Shawn stammered.

  "Keep the cash." Chen Jianqiu took the pouch, voice flat. He pulled out something thin and papery.

  Shawn frowned. This guy chased me across town for ten bucks. Now he's Mr. Generous?

  Chen Jianqiu unfolded the material—yellowed, wrinkled, with a crude drawing.

  "Human skin," Flying Bird said suddenly. He'd returned with two long guns, a revolver on his hip, his bow, and the axe.

  "Rifle, shotgun, and the dead guard's sidearm." He laid them on the desk.

  Chen Jianqiu inspected the weapons. A Springfield 1861—standard issue in the Civil War. The shotgun was a Colt 1878, a coach gun. Powerful, but about as precise as a blind man's guess.

  If his martial skills were this body's instincts, firearms clearly weren't. His past life knew guns in theory, but he'd never fired one.

  He slipped the skin back into the pouch, along with the notebook, then tossed the rifle to Flying Bird and the revolver to Shawn.

  Shawn fumbled it like a hot coal. "Whoa, boss, I don't do guns."

  Chen Jianqiu didn't argue. He holstered the revolver and hefted the shotgun.

  "Move out."