Chapter 1

In the dust-choked town of Dreadworth, where the sun blazed with the fiery wrath of a thousand suns, a peculiar character went about his daily business. His name was Fat Joe, a fifteen-year-old boy with a physique that belied his youthful years. His skin, a deep shade of chocolate, gleamed with the sweat of his labor, as he plied the streets, shoe shine box in hand, a hopeful glint in his eye. Orphaned at a tender age, Joe had learned to navigate the harsh landscape of this desolate place, where the only constant was the relentless march of time and the ever-present aroma of despair.

The buildings in Dreadworth leaned into each other like drunken companions, their wooden facades weathered by the whims of the relentless desert wind. Above the saloon’s swinging doors, a faded sign creaked, promising refuge from the unforgiving heat. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke, a symphony of desperation that filled the room like a silent prayer. It was here that Joe had found his first customers, the patrons too inebriated to care about the color of the hand that shined their boots.

Joe’s days began before the roosters had even considered their morning chorus, as he rose from his makeshift bed, a pile of burlap sacks in an alley behind the town’s burlesque. The cabaret’s vibrant lights had long ago been extinguished, leaving behind a trail of discarded dreams and forgotten whispers. He stretched, his belly rumbling with the empty promise of a meal to come, and set about collecting his meager possessions. The town was a mosaic of vices and hardships, and Joe was one of its many unfortunate pieces.

With a sigh, he hefted his shine box onto his shoulders and stepped out into the nascent light. The cobblestone streets were already bustling with the usual cast of characters: the outlaws with their chests puffed out like peacocks, the saloon girls with painted smiles, and the merchants who prayed for a bountiful day of deception. The casino stood tall, a gleaming bastion of hope and ruin, its windows reflecting the rising sun in a way that made Joe squint. He had heard tales of the riches that changed hands within its walls, but the clank of coins and the turn of cards was a world that remained firmly beyond his grasp.

The town’s brothel, known as The Velvet Whisper, was a place of hushed secrets and muffled laughter. Its red door stood open, a beacon of temptation for those with enough coin to spare. Joe knew the madam, a stern woman with a heart of gold, who sometimes offered him a slice of bread when business was slow. She had a soft spot for the boy, recognizing in him a spark that refused to be extinguished by the town’s oppressive gloom.

As the day grew older, so did Joe’s list of customers. His nimble fingers danced over the leather of their boots, bringing forth a shine that was a testament to his skill and perseverance. Yet, amidst the clank of spurs and the jingle of change, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of his solitude. His thoughts often drifted to the world beyond Dreadworth’s dusty confines, a place where a boy like him might find a home and a future that didn’t involve a shoe shine box and a hand-to-mouth existence.

It was on one such day, as the sun climbed to its peak, that Joe decided to try his luck at the bustling railway station. The trains that chugged through Dreadworth were a lifeline to the outside world, carrying with them the scent of adventure and the promise of a better life. He had heard that the travelers who disembarked there often had the coin to spare for a shine.

The station was a hive of activity, with men in dusty hats and women in faded bonnets hurrying to and fro, their eyes cast downward to avoid the harsh glare of the sun. The platform stretched out like a wooden serpent, swallowing the rickety train that had just pulled in with a hiss of steam. Joe’s heart pounded in his chest as he approached the crowd, his box banging against his legs with each step.

The conductor’s whistle pierced the air, and the throng of people parted like the Red Sea, revealing a veritable cornucopia of potential customers. There were wealthy businessmen with gleaming leather boots that begged for his attention, and grizzled cowboys with scuffed-up work boots that bore the tales of a hundred cattle drives. His eyes lit up at the sight of a sheriff with a badge so bright it could blind a man in the right light. Surely, he thought, such a man would appreciate a shine.

With renewed vigor, Joe pushed through the crowd, his voice a clear bell over the cacophony. “Sir! Ma’am! A shine for your boots, only a penny!” His words were met with a mix of indifference and suspicion, but he pressed on, undeterred. It was here, amidst the chaos of the station, that he spotted a man who was different from the rest. He was tall, with a lean build and a face etched by the lines of a thousand untold stories. His eyes were a piercing blue, and his boots were the finest Joe had ever seen, unblemished by the desert’s relentless assault. The man’s gaze met Joe’s, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Joe felt a flicker of hope, a glimmer of possibility in the otherwise grim tapestry of his life. Perhaps this man, this stranger with the expensive boots, would be the one to change his fortune. He quickened his pace, eager to offer his services before the man disappeared into the saloon’s welcoming embrace. As he approached, Joe could almost taste the sweet victory of a silver dollar, a sum that could feed him for a week and maybe, just maybe, give him enough to leave Dreadworth behind. But as he opened his mouth to speak, the man looked away, his attention captured by a distant rider approaching the town. The anticipation in Joe’s chest fizzled out like a doused campfire. He watched as the man stepped off the platform and into the dust, his boots unblemished by the grime of the street, and wondered if he would ever escape the fate that seemed to have been etched into his soul the day he had been left an orphan.

But as the stranger’s spurs chimed with each step, something strange happened. The man paused, glancing back over his shoulder at Joe. For a brief instant, their eyes met again, and Joe felt a strange kinship, a silent understanding that transcended the gulf of their circumstances. The man reached into his pocket and flipped a silver coin through the air. It spun in the sunlight, a glittering promise of a future that might just be within reach.

The coin landed with a clink in Joe’s open hand, and the world around him seemed to fade away. The laughter of the saloon girls, the growl of the outlaws, the murmur of the crowd – all of it melted into the background. In that moment, all that mattered was the cool weight of the silver dollar and the unspoken challenge it represented.

Joe looked up, his eyes shining with determination. “Thank you, mister,” he called out, his voice carrying over the din. The man nodded, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, before disappearing into the throng of people. With newfound purpose, Joe clutched the dollar tightly, feeling the promise it held. Perhaps today was the day his luck would change. Perhaps today was the day he would begin to write a new chapter in his story.

He hurried to the nearest bakery, a tiny shop with a faded awning that had seen better days. The scent of fresh bread wafted out, making his stomach growl louder than ever. With the coin still warm in his hand, he stepped inside, the tinkle of the bell above the door announcing his arrival. The baker, a plump woman with flour-dusted hands, looked up from her work, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of the dollar.

“What can I get for you, young man?” she asked, her voice kind despite the weariness etched into her features.

“A loaf of bread, please,” Joe said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. It had been weeks since he had last enjoyed a full meal, and the thought of sinking his teeth into a crusty loaf filled him with a hunger that was almost painful.

The baker handed him a loaf, still warm from the oven, and Joe’s eyes grew even wider. It was larger and more beautiful than any he had ever seen, with a golden crust that shone like the sun. He offered her the dollar, but she waved it away. “Keep your change,” she said with a gentle smile. “You look like you could use it more than I can.”

Joe stepped back outside, the weight of the bread in his hand feeling like a small victory. He broke off a chunk and took a bite, the flavor exploding on his tongue like a symphony of heavenly delights. He savored each mouthful, feeling the energy return to his body with every chew. It wasn’t just food; it was sustenance for his soul, a reminder that there was kindness in the world, even in a place like Dreadworth.

As he ate, he couldn’t help but think about the man who had given him the dollar. Who was he? What was his story? The silver coin in Joe’s pocket felt heavier now, not just with its monetary value, but with the weight of the unknown. He decided that he would save it, a talisman of hope that he could cling to in the darkest of moments. It was a reminder that there were still mysteries in the world, and perhaps, just perhaps, one of them would lead him to a life beyond the dusty streets of Dreadworth.

For now, though, Joe had a full belly and a fresh start. He took a deep breath, the air tasting cleaner somehow, and continued his work. The boots of the townsfolk shone a little brighter that day, and Joe’s heart felt a little lighter. He knew that his path ahead was fraught with danger and uncertainty, but for the first time in a long while, he had the faintest glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, he could carve out a destiny of his own.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the street, Joe heard the distant rumble of an approaching train. He wiped the last of the crumbs from his mouth and shouldered his shine box, a new spring in his step. The whistle grew louder, a siren’s call to the weary travelers and the hopeful dreamers alike. He knew what this meant: another opportunity to earn his keep and maybe, just maybe, to find a way out of Dreadworth.

He sprinted back to the station, his feet barely touching the ground. The train pulled in, a monstrous metal beast belching steam and smoke. The crowd grew thick as the passengers disembarked, a sea of potential customers. His eyes scanned the horizon, searching for the man with the silver dollar. But he was nowhere to be seen. The train’s arrival brought a mix of excitement and disappointment, but Joe knew better than to let his heart be ruled by the whims of fate.

He offered his bag carrying services with renewed enthusiasm, his eyes searching for the next kind soul who might offer him a glimpse of a brighter future. His voice rose above the din, “Need a hand with your luggage, ma’am? Only a dime for the service!” A beautiful well-dressed woman with a parasol and a look of distaste at the dusty street took notice of him. She eyed him up and down before nodding curtly. Joe took her heavy trunk with a grateful smile, feeling the weight of the coin in his pocket.

As they approached the center of town, the woman paused, her gaze flitting over the rowdy saloons and seedy establishments. “Do you know where I might find ... entertainment?” she asked, her voice a delicate mix of refinement and hesitance.

Joe nodded eagerly, eager to impress. “Ma’am, Dreadworth’s got plenty to offer. You got the cabaret for a fancy show and the casino for some gamblin’”

The woman’s eyes lit up at the mention of burlesque. “Ah, a cabaret. That sounds ... delightful. Could you direct me to the finest one in town?”

Joe felt a pang of nervousness. He knew of the Courage Saloon held court each night with her mesmerizing performances. The place was a hotbed of passion and vice, but it was also where Joe felt a strange kinship with the dancers who sometimes tossed him a coin or two after their shows. “Ma’am,” he said, “the best show in town is at the Courage Saloon. It’s got a real classy burlesque every night.”

The woman’s eyes sparkled at the mention of the saloon, and she handed Joe another silver dollar. “Take me there, young man,” she said, her voice dripping with excitement.

Joe’s heart skipped a beat. Two silver dollars in one day? It was more than he had made in a week. He flagged down a carriage, its paint peeling and the horse looking as tired as the cobblestones beneath its hooves. The driver, a grizzled man with a toothless grin, tipped his hat in greeting. “Where to, little buddy?”

“Courage Saloon,” Joe called out, his voice filled with a confidence that was as surprising to him as it was to the driver. The woman nodded in approval and climbed into the carriage, her silk dress rustling as she settled into the worn leather seat. Joe hopped in after her, placing her luggage at their feet. The carriage lurched forward, and they set off through the narrow streets of Dreadworth, the wheels rattling over the uneven stones.

The Courage Saloon was a sight to behold, even in the fading light. The neon lights danced and flickered, casting a garish glow over the sidewalks. The air was thick with the scent of cigar smoke and the distant sound of a piano playing a tune that seemed to promise both heaven and hell. As they drew closer, Joe could see the line of patrons already forming outside, eager to escape the heat of the day and lose themselves in the cool embrace of the saloon’s shadows.

The woman stepped out of the carriage with a grace that seemed almost out of place in such a rough-and-tumble town. She took Joe’s hand, and together they approached the swinging doors. The moment they entered, the place fell silent, all eyes on the elegant stranger. Lady Myrtle ‘Courage’ England, the saloon’s namesake and owner, sat behind the bar, a regal figure with grey hair pulled back into a severe bun. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the sight of the newcomer, and Joe felt a shiver of apprehension run down his spine.

The woman glided through the room, her silk dress whispering against the sawdust-covered floor. She approached Lady Myrtle, her voice a seductive purr. “I’ve heard tell of your fine establishment, madam,” she said, her words dripping with honeyed charm. “I’ve come seeking an opportunity to ... entertain your patrons.”

Lady Myrtle’s eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, took in the woman’s beauty and poise. “Is that so?” she asked, her tone skeptical. “What’s your name, miss?”

The woman gave a demure smile. “Mrs. Kathleen ‘Angel Eyes’ McGowan,” she replied, her voice a melodious blend of sweetness and steel.

Lady Myrtle’s expression softened slightly, recognizing the name. “Ah, I’ve heard of you, Mrs. McGowan,” she said, her tone now one of respect. “Your reputation precedes you. You’re looking to join our little troupe, are you?”