Chapter 1

The sun dipped low over the horizon, casting a warm amber glow across the dust-swept streets of the ramshackle town that had grown up around the new gold mine. The buildings were a jumble of wooden clapboard and canvas, thrown together hastily to accommodate the influx of hopeful prospectors. The air had the smells of sweat, whiskey, and greed.

Amos McIntyre, a burly man with a thick, unruly beard, strode through the saloon doors, the hinges groaning in protest. He was a local legend, a man who had struck gold and then lost it all to the poker tables. His eyes, a piercing blue, scanned the room with a mix of hunger and resentment. The patrons of the saloon, a motley crew of miners, cardsharps, and opportunistic whores, took note of his entrance, their conversations hushing briefly before resuming in a murmur. They knew his type: a desperate man with nothing to lose.

In the corner, a card game was in full swing. The players were a mix of sweat-stained miners and a few too-clean gentlemen in town to fleece the naive. The dealer, a slick character with a greasy smile, flipped a card across the table, revealing the queen of hearts. One miner slapped his hand down, a glint of gold in his eyes. “Call,” he slurred, pushing a small pile of nuggets forward. The tension in the room grew as thick as the smoke from the cigars that hung in the air.

Amos made his way to the bar, the scuffed leather of his boots whispering against the planked floor. The bartender, a man named Larry with a nose that looked like it had seen one too many bar fights, eyed him warily. “Whiskey,” Amos growled, slapping a coin on the counter. Larry’s hand was as quick as a snake’s, snatching the coin and sliding a glass of amber liquid in its place. “Keep it coming,” he added, his voice a gravelly rumble.

The saloon was a cauldron of humanity’s basest desires—a place where dreams went to die a swift and brutal death. The walls were lined with whiskey bottles, their labels faded from the relentless sun and the grime of countless hands. The mirror behind the bar reflected the room in a distorted reality, the faces of the patrons twisted by the cheap glass into caricatures of hope and despair. The clank of coins and the slap of cards melded with the occasional laughter and frequent grumbles, creating a cacophony of sound that filled the air.

Amos nursed his drink, the fiery liquid doing little to warm the cold emptiness inside him. His thoughts drifted back to the day he had found the gold nugget that had started it all. It had been so large he could have traded it for a lifetime of comfort back east, but instead, he had let the siren song of the frontier lure him into this pit of vice. Now, his pockets were as empty as the bottom of the whiskey glass he held in his trembling hand. His eyes narrowed as he watched the card game unfold. He recognized the dealer, a man named Slim, who had a reputation for being as crooked as a snake in a knot. The game was rigged, of that Amos was certain.

A young prostitute, barely more than a girl, sidled up to him. She had a pretty face marred by the hard life she’d been forced into. “Care for some company, mister?” she asked in a voice that sounded far too tired for her age. Amos felt a pang of pity, remembering his own sister who had been lost to the same fate. He gently patted her hand and whispered, “Not tonight, sweetheart.” She offered a half-hearted smile before moving on to the next potential customer.