-NOVEMBER 3RD, 1889-

-PEMBINA, NORTH DAKOTA-

The first light of morning crept over the flatlands, a pale gold that slowly bled into rose along the horizon. Frost clung stubbornly to the tall prairie grasses, each blade glinting like a shard of glass as the sun rose higher. Beyond the Red River, a thin veil of mist drifted in a lazy coil, softening the outlines of cottonwoods and the distant roofs of Pembina.

The town was already out of slumber, chimney warm, streets crowded, all stirred by wagon wheels or the chatter of merchants opening their doors. A lone trail cut across the open country, its ruts hardened from the chill night. From the east came the muffled thud of hooves.

Two horses emerged from the lingering dawn haze-one a rangy bay, the other a black shire with a white blaze down her face. Their riders, bundled against the early-morning cold, rode at an easy pace, letting the animals pick their way along the frost-stiffened path.

As they neared the rise overlooking Pembina, the sun finally cleared the horizon. Its warmth touched the riders’ shoulders and cast long shadows behind them. Ahead, the small town came into a sharper view-its church steeple catching the light first, then the squat trading post, and a row of wooden homes huddled close against the prairie wind.

But the two aren’t here for that.

Clearing his throat loudly, one of the riders started while guiding his horse forward into the town and towards a boarding stable: “Do you know which saloon it is exactly?”

“Course I do.” The other man replied with a scoff as if the question was taken as an insult before he continued: “Don't get me confused with Frank all of a sudden, Ivan. I know my directions and all the letters said Pembina, so as I said, don’t question what I do and don’t know.” He warned with a finger to be stern, but he couldn't shake that cocky grin from his face.

“Who am I to question your knowledge, Benjamin? Now, if it were Manning, Anderson, or Banks, they’d be let off with a warning. Or maybe even your little pen-friend, huh?” Ivan jokingly comments when dismounting his horse once the two make their way inside the boarding stables.

Once Benjamin got off his horse, Ivan grabbed both horses from the bottom of their halters below the chin to lead them past dutch doors and into their own individual stall before closing them. Right when Ivan turned around, Benjamin was already looking at him with a slight tone of irritation, showing enough to let him know his thoughts on the joke.

“Don’t mention Anderson. Not when we’re about to do this. It’ll throw off my focus, and one mistake we’ll all be hanged, no doubt.” He didn't bother to look at Ivan any longer to see his reaction and went to an empty stall to use a bucket to dump his face in and pull his face out after a few quick seconds.

The cold water woke him up, and he used whatever was left dripping to run up his face, then through his hair to clean his face off as he walked to the exit right before giving Ivan one last glance before leaving: “Stick to the plan. Round everyone up while I get the ladies and details.”

The town was lively for an early morning. Farmers running from one shop to the next to prepare for winter. Men and women trading fur while they have hunters group to set competition against one another to hunt buffalo. White-collar workers opening their shops, but one thing all the townspeople took part in-even if it were a child, a man, a woman, or dog if it tried, was staring.

They’re all on edge. Just a day prior, North Dakota was admitted to become part of the U.S. For a few hours now, law enforcement had been chasing outlaws all over the state, from town to town, with plans to draw them all out, and Pembina was one of them.

Benjamin pulled his collar up against the wind and moved down the main thoroughfare with deliberate steps, his boots crunching on the frozen dirt. The sidewalk was crowded enough that he had to shoulder past a woman carrying a basket of bread, her eyes narrowing at him with suspicion before she hurried on. Every face he passed seemed to hold the same wary calculation-measuring him, trying to place whether he was law or outlaw, threat or stranger just passing through.

A blacksmith’s hammer rang out from an open-fronted forge, the rhythmic clang cutting through the morning air, while smoke from a dozen chimneys twisted upward into the pale sky. He kept his gaze forward, scanning the weathered storefronts until he spotted what he was looking for: a two-story building with a faded sign that read ‘The Northern Star’ in peeling gold letters.

It sat at the corner where the main street bent east, its windows dark except for a flicker of lamplight on the second floor. A few horses were already tied to the hitching post out front, their breath pluming in the cold. Benjamin adjusted his hat, rolled his shoulders once to loosen the tension, and stepped up onto the wooden porch.

The boards creaked under his weight. He pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside.

The saloon’s interior was thick with smoke and the smell of whiskey-soaked floorboards. A few oil lamps flickered along the walls, casting long shadows across the scattered tables where men hunched over cards and half-empty glasses. The bar ran the length of the left wall, its surface scarred and stained from years of elbows and spilled drinks.

Benjamin’s eyes adjusted to the gloom as he scanned the room. In the far corner, partially obscured by a support beam, sat a woman with auburn hair pinned neatly beneath a black hat. She held what appeared to be an umbrella propped against her shoulder, but something about it caught his attention-the handle was too thick, too rigid, more like the stock of a rifle than the curve of a parasol. Betty. Right where she said she’d be.

Near the bar, a Chinese woman in a plain cotton dress moved between tables, balancing a tray. Josephine. Her face was composed, eyes downcast, but he could see the tension in her shoulders as she approached a table near the center of the room.

And there, slouched in a chair with his boots kicked up on the table’s edge, was the man Benjamin had come to find.

He was ugly in the way that meanness carves itself into a face over time. Thin lips twisted into a permanent sneer, a nose that had been broken more than once and healed crooked, and small eyes that glinted with a dull, predatory cunning.

“Hey! Round-eye!” The man barked at Josephine, snapping his fingers. “I've been sittin’ here near five minutes. You gonna bring me a damn drink or you too slow to do somethin’ simple?”

Josephine paused, her knuckles white on the tray. She didn't look at him. “Maybe you’d be better off as a harlot,” the man continued, leaning back with a cruel grin. “Least then you’d be useful for somethin’.”

Benjamin's jaw tightened. He crossed the room in four long strides and stopped at the edge of the table. “Chinese,” he said, his voice flat and cold.

The man's head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

Benjamin pulled out the chair across from him and sat down without invitation, his eyes never leaving the stranger's face. “She's Chinese. Not ‘round-eye.’ Chinese.”

Benjamin turned slightly toward Josephine and spoke a few quick words in Mandarin-his pronunciation rough but serviceable. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she nodded once before hurrying toward the stairs at the back of the room.

The stranger watched her go, then turned back to Benjamin with a slow, nasty smile. His tongue rolled over a gap in his teeth-a missing one on the left side.

“Well, well,” the man drawled. “You’re one of Hartmann's boys, ain't ya?”

Benjamin nodded and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “I see you're still missing that tooth.”

The man’s smile faltered.

“Don’t hold a grudge against me for it,” Benjamin continued, his tone almost conversational. “That was, what, two months ago? Most men your age lose their teeth naturally. But since you’ve still got the rest of them, I’d wager you’re shitting dust instead of food.”

The man’s face darkened. His hand dropped to his side, hovering near the butt of his revolver. “You got some nerve walkin’ in here and runnin’ your mouth. I could gut you where you stand. Hell, I got men scattered all over this room. One word from me and you’ll have more holes than a sieve.”

Benjamin didn’t flinch. He met the man’s glare with an even stare, his voice dropping lower. “That won't turn out well for you.”

He stood abruptly, crossing to a dartboard mounted on the wall near the bar. He plucked a dart from the board and tested its weight, then threw it. It struck just outside the bullseye with a solid thunk. He pulled another dart free and turned it over in his fingers.

“You know,” Benjamin said, throwing the second dart, “I've been thinking about you a lot these past few weeks.”

The man shifted in his chair, eyes narrowing. “That so?”

“Yeah.” Another dart. This one landed closer to the center. “See, you almost got people I care about killed. My brother... he’s sitting in a cell right now, waiting to get hanged. All because of you and your friends.”

The stranger scoffed. “You want me to feel sorry for you? My gang went through the same damn thing. Law’s been crawlin’ all over us since statehood. Half our boys are scattered, don't know where to go or what to do.”

Benjamin threw another dart, harder this time. It pierced the bullseye dead center. “Funny thing about that,” he said, turning to face the man. “Turns out, someone gave me a tip. Said you and your boys were hiding out here in Pembina.”

The man’s brow furrowed. “How the hell-”

“That’d be me.” A woman’s voice cut through the air, smooth and lilting with the curl of an Irish accent. Benjamin turned as she stepped out from behind the bar, moving with an easy confidence. She pulled out the chair between them and sat down, folding her hands on the table.

She was striking. Light blue eyes that caught the lamplight, a dusting of freckles across her pale skin, and curly ginger-brown hair braided and pinned into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Her clothes were simple but well-made: a dark red prairie skirt, a white blouse with lace at the collar, black gloves, and a black corset that cinched her waist and accentuated her figure.

“You little…” the man started, his voice a growl.

Benjamin stared at her, momentarily caught off guard. She turned to him with a faint smile. “It seems ye’ got my letters. Came just as you said.”

Her words tumbled out quickly, the Irish accent thickening each syllable. Benjamin blinked, replaying the sentence in his head. Then his eyes widened. “Letters?” he repeated. “Ciara?”

She nodded, her smile widening just a fraction. “Aye. Though I’ll admit, your looks do compensate for your horrible handwriting.”

The stranger slammed his fist on the table. “So now you’re a rat? A goddamn rat. After everything your father has done.”

Ciara’s smile vanished. She turned on him with a look of pure disgust. “My father could care less about me,” she said, her voice rising, the accent growing thicker with each word. “For a mayor, he’s more concerned with linin’ his own pockets than helpin’ the people who elected him. He’s made deals with criminals worse than you lot, shaken hands with men who’d sooner shoot him than look at him. And the cherry on top?”

Her voice cracked, and she leaned forward, her eyes blazing. “I heard him talkin’ about sellin’ me. Givin’ me away to his men for protection. Like I'm cattle.”

Benjamin watched her, his jaw tight. The man across from them leaned back in his chair, a slow, mocking grin spreading across his face.

“Well, ain’t that a sob story,” the stranger said. “But you got what you wanted. Got your information, got your informant.” He gestured lazily toward the door. “So why don't the two of you leave while I'm still feelin’ generous?”

Benjamin didn't move. He twirled the bullseye dart between his fingers, his gaze locked on the man. “You haven't given me what I came for.”

The stranger's grin widened, and he slowly stood up. “And what's that?”

“Manning,” Benjamin said. “Where is he?”

The man chuckled, shaking his head. “You think I'm just gonna hand that over? You got some stones, Hartmann. I'll give you that.”

“Move,” Benjamin said, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. “Tell me where Manning is, or I'll make you regret it. I've got friends in this room, same as you. You'd be a fool to refuse.”

The stranger shrugged, his grin turning cruel. “You think you can just walk inside here? Act big and bold-asking questions? I don’t care for you, your oh-so-diverse little gang, or a single damn about this tramp of a daugh-” He pointed a finger at Ciara.

The gunshot came before he could finish.

The sound was deafening, a sharp crack that split the air and silenced every voice in the saloon. The echo rang out, reverberating off the walls, followed by a high-pitched ringing that seemed to stretch into eternity. Ciara’s eyes were squeezed shut, her hands clamped over her ears.

When she opened them, Benjamin was standing, his revolver raised and still smoking. The stranger stood frozen on his feet, his mouth twitching. Blood spurted from his right eye socket in a clean, dark stream. Benjamin had fired through the man’s eye, through his skull, through his brain, and out the back of his head. The dart board behind him bore the evidence-the bullseye dart embedded dead center, a spray of blood and bone radiating outward from the impact.

The man’s revolver clattered to the floor. His body followed a heartbeat later, toppling sideways with a heavy thud.

For a moment, the saloon was utterly still. Then chaos erupted.

A man near Betty’s corner, a friend of the stranger, lunged for his gun, but before he could draw, the tip of her "umbrella" barked-a rifle shot from the concealed barrel. The bullet punched through his skull, and his body ragdolled backward into the piano. The instrument crashed with a discordant clang, keys splintering and strings snapping.

Civilians screamed and scrambled for the door. Chairs overturned, glass shattered, and men dove for cover. Benjamin grabbed Ciara by the shoulder and shoved her beneath the table.

“Stay down!” he barked, firing two quick shots at a man rushing him from the left. The bullets caught the attacker in the chest, and he crumpled.

Before Benjamin could turn, someone tackled him from behind. He hit the floor hard, the wind knocked from his lungs. Fists rained down on his face, and he tasted blood. Ciara, pressed against the floor beneath the table, saw Benjamin’s revolver skitter across the boards toward her. She grabbed it with trembling hands, her fingers clumsy on the grip. She’d never held a gun before, but she pointed it at the man pummeling Benjamin and squeezed the trigger.

The gun bucked in her hands. The shot went wide, striking someone in the ankle across the room. The man screamed and collapsed.

“Damn it!” Ciara hissed. She shifted, bracing herself, and drove her knee into the attacker’s ribs. Once. Twice. Three times.

The man grunted but didn’t let up. Then Josephine appeared, her face set in grim determination. She raised a small derringer and fired point-blank into the back of the man's head. He slumped forward, and she shoved his body off Benjamin.

Benjamin spat blood and pushed himself to his knees. “Josephine... take her. Get out. The others should be outside by now.”

Josephine grabbed Ciara's hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come on!”

Ciara stumbled after her, glancing back at Benjamin as they rushed toward the door. He was already on his feet, reloading. Betty emerged from the corner, her rifle smoking. He glanced at her before asking: “Did he talk?”

“Not enough,” Betty said, ducking as a bottle shattered against the wall behind her. “But he mentioned west. Montana, maybe. We need a hostage.”

As if on cue, a man came charging at them from the bar, a knife raised. Betty swung her rifle and fired. The bullet caught him in the foot, and he went down hard. Benjamin was on him in seconds, driving his fist into the man’s jaw until he went limp.

“Got one,” Benjamin grunted, hoisting the unconscious body over his shoulder.

They burst through the saloon doors into the morning light. The street was chaos-civilians fleeing, gang members firing from cover. Two large wagons rolled up, Ivan at the reins of the first.

“About time!" Ivan shouted, pulling the wagon to a stop. He jumped down and grabbed the unconscious man from Benjamin, tossing him into the back. Benjamin turned and fired three shots back into the saloon, covering Betty as she sprinted to the second wagon. She climbed aboard, her rifle still in hand.

“Ben! Your horse!” Ivan yelled, pointing to the black shire tied near the wagons.

Benjamin ran, vaulting into the saddle. He spurred the horse forward, falling in behind the wagons as they lurched into motion. Shots rang out behind them, bullets kicking up dirt, but they were already moving, the horses straining against their harnesses as they pulled away from Pembina.

Benjamin glanced back once, just long enough to see the saloon doors swinging shut, smoke rising from the windows. Then he turned forward, his jaw set, and rode hard into the open prairie.