The Tin Ten Saloon only breathes at night, emerging under that oppressive, blood-red moon like a scab on the mountain's hide. Shadows in Lethe don’t behave; they stretch too long, thick as oil, casting on the wrong side of a man. They call it the Crimson Night. It’s a place where life and death are far more strange—unsettling enough to chill even the Devil's bones. And I know the Devil.

  Red Shadetowns like Lethe ramp the creepiness up a notch. The bustling patrons conducting shadow deals give an illusion of civility, but that’s the bait. In Lethe, a man can gamble, fight, and fuck almost anything usually reserved for the rich and powerful.

  The Tin Ten was built like its architect anticipated a siege. The interior was a cavernous, single-room death trap, smelling of week-old body odor and mildew from unkempt clothes fresh off cattle drives and train robberies. A scuffed mahogany bar dominated the left wall, backed by a monumental mirror with a strange, ether-frost finish. Above, a narrow iron catwalk ran the length of the back wall, providing perfect firing positions for high-powered rifles.

  I saw Caleb Grimsby at the far back, surrounded by his gang and family. Heavily armed. At my count, every soul in that bar was a triggerman. In a Shadetown, "Outfitters" keep active deals that act as open contracts, giving them a measure of protection. It meant I didn't have the luxury of a one-on-one showdown; I had a bar of hardened gunmen with itchy trigger fingers. Getting to Caleb would be a legendary task.

  The bartender's heel tapped across the scuffed wood in pitch-perfect silence. I felt the hyenas licking their chops, looking at me—the notorious Corris Lee Carson, the Wolf of Red Mesa. Hands moved to hips. I knew what was next.

  “I’m here for you, Caleb Grimsby,” I said.

  No one spoke. Drinkers and gamblers looked at me, matching my face to the wanted posters. Hammers clicked. I licked my lips, stretched my fingers, and moved my duster’s flaps over my holsters. Then, the gold flashed in my eyes. The world slowed to a crawl as my pupils dilated.

  "Well, I don't have all night!” I yelled.

  I wanted the itchy trigger fingers to get to work. The Shift pulled the world in closer. I saw where everyone sat, the types of guns being cocked, the men on the catwalk moving in slow motion. I could hear my heartbeat thump—slow, heavy. My breathing labored as time nearly slowed to a crawl.

  I waited for the first click of an empty chamber. That was my cue.

  Several men popped up, knocking chairs back. I cut them down before their guns even cleared leather. Six shots. Four men dead. One man landed face-first on a card table, chips and money going airborne. I spun on my heel, aiming at the catwalk, and emptied my cylinders. Three men fell from the iron rail, landing on the hard wood with a sickening thud. I could see the bullet trails through the Shift, silver threads making it easy to stay out of the way of killshots.

  I reloaded and went back to work, completing my turn to send the crowd ducking for cover. I jumped onto the bar top, zig-zagging between gunmen. Tom Kimpler tried to make it out of the line of fire, so I made him a bullet shield. I snagged his jacket collar and forced him onto the bar with me. Bullets riddled him, blood spurting on me as his body was cut down by buckshot.

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  Bark Thomas drew down fast. I reacted faster, kicking the green felt card table into his chin, sending guns and drinks flying. I fanned the hammer—one in Bark’s throat, two more for Kip Gaines and Skip Stokely. Three bullets. Three kills.

  Then came Paul Sykes and Dick Parsons, childhood friends who died in their chairs before they could show off their skill. I leaped off the bar and ducked behind overturned tables. Brass cartridges skittered on the floor like dry bone.

  “Give it up, Caleb! It doesn't get easier!”

  “Screw you, Corris Lee! Come get me!”

  Gunsmoke filled the space, mixing with the cigarette haze to create a screen. I pinned Caleb with one gun while the other cut down anyone who stood. Kale Cottonbarn fell from the catwalk, followed by Martin Gale, Richard Corig, and Derek Savage. The cadence was bloody.

  I hit a Shift Reload, the Rolling 6. My custom Colt Stormwalkers have a reload tab on the inside of my ammo bandolier. I pushed the catch, ejected the spent shells, and rolled the chamber with fluid speed. To everyone else, I had simply redrawn my weapon.

  That’s how Tim Green, the bartender, died. The moment his second hammer clicked, the back of his head erupted in bone and brain matter. Whiskey bottles shattered, spewing spirits in a wet flare. Masterful.

  Caleb drew his shotgun, but I chipped a chunk of the wooden table into his face, blinding him with woodchips and green felt.

  “You can’t take on the whole bar, Corris Lee!” he screamed.

  “Keep hold of my beer, little brother!” I yelled back.

  I rolled from the tables in a deadly rhythm, shedding lead indiscriminately into Cole Simmons, Dale Tracey, and the Oakridge twins. By the time Gus Charley pulled his rifle, I’d rolled to the side and put a round between his eyes.

  That’s when all hell really broke. The lounge became a sawmill of dust, splinters, and glass. Men on the lower deck turned their tables over, dumping chips and unloading on the upper bar, inadvertently pinning Caleb. He was sweating bullets now, realizing I wasn’t leaving without him.

  Then Travis Dune, the House Boss, brought the heavy solution. A drop-down, heavy-caliber brass Gatling gun with a thousand hornets. Dune was a portly man in a tight maroon vest, his gecko-face twisted in a mask of greasy sweat as he gripped the handles.

  Donald Crohn was the first to get the volley. The Gatling’s spin tore him into ground meat and bone. I pushed Curtis Cotton aside as the spring-mounted cannon screeched with hellfire. I crawled under a pool table just in time to see Carrie Kinley get cut in half, his guts spilling across the floor while his eyes searched for the how of his mutilation. Dan Fulsome and Greg McGowan joined the scene, round after round turning men into chuck.

  I’d be lying if I said the sight didn’t trigger my saliva. The savory smell of man-flesh caused my adrenaline and hunger to spike, threatening to push my animal side to act. The monster wanted to feast. My bullets continued their ravenous appetite, punching through flesh and leaving nothing untouched. I darted between the turned over card tables. Gunning down anyone pointing their six-iron in my direction.

  Patrick Cutlass fired his shotgun with near perfect accuracy. Near perfect. I saw the buckshot flare open like a lead flower blooming. Barely missing me as I leaned to the side. I fan fired through the man's chest. Leaving three holes. Three bullets. Three wet holes with blood saturating his cotton shirt.

  Boone Carpenter rushed me with his gun leading him toward me. Bullets zipped by my cheek as I ducked under the bullet trails. Filling his body with lead. I heard boots rushing across the floor to overwhelm me behind the card table. With a hard kick, I sent the card table smashing into them. My eyes flared gold at the edges of my sight. I pounded their bodies expending my cylinders. Twelve shots. Eight men dead.