The first rays of dawn barely kissed the horizon when Stephen stretched and crawled out of his tent.
The heavy snowfall from the previous night had subsided, leaving a world blanketed in white. Stephen glanced back, noticing that his own tracks were completely buried.
Silence enveloped him. He looked up at the vast expanse of sky and took a deep breath.
For a moment, it felt as if the entire world was frozen in time.
The sharp cries of a few birds flying over a distant mountain jolted Stephen, reawakening the frozen world.
He had slept well that night. In fact, he had begun to grow accustomed to the rugged outdoor life.
During his year as a bounty hunter, he had spent more nights under the stars than in a bed.
The American West was vast, and criminals often disappeared into the mountains to start new lives. Stephen had to spend most of his time sleeping outdoors to catch them.
Being a bounty hunter was not for the faint of heart. Between braving the elements and facing desperate criminals, it took a certain kind of person to survive. Fortunately, Stephen had his own set of skills.
He pulled out a pouch of ground coffee and a small bag of used coffee grounds, brewing himself a pot of bitter coffee using melted snow.
This type of coffee was popular among Westerners in this era. It was simple to make, incredibly stimulating, but lacked in flavor.
The Wild West was teeming with cowboys, criminals, gang members, and itinerant figures like bounty hunters.
Their lives were far from the romanticized tales of quick justice and easy money. Most of them were desperately poor.
Like those four unlucky men from yesterday, they could die at any moment.
They woke up every day worrying about their next meal, often fighting and even killing each other for a few dollars.
To save money, they would mix fresh grounds with used grounds, resulting in a coffee that was overwhelmingly strong and bitter.
Every pore on their body would radiate bitterness with each sip. It wasn't delicious, but it definitely provided a jolt.
As a bounty hunter, Stephen had inevitably adopted some of these habits. He had gone from hating it to accepting it, and the experiences along the way were best left unsaid.
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He lifted the cup, staring at the dark liquid. He raised it to his lips and threw back his head, gulping it down in one go.
The bitter, scalding coffee burned down his throat and into his stomach, jolting him awake.
To be accurate, he had been jolted awake by the bitterness.
After a moment of silent suffering, Stephen was fully alert. He began to pack up his gear, preparing to leave.
He decided to skip breakfast. He wasn't far from the Adlers' place, maybe two hours away. He was sure they would offer him a good meal.
He stowed away his tent, bedding, pots, and pans on the pack horse, then doused the campfire with snow.
With everything packed, Stephen led his two horses down the trail.
The snow-covered mountain path was treacherous. Stephen struggled to lead the way, his feet sinking deep into the snow with every step, nearly sending him sprawling more than once.
The black horse, burdened with the heavy load, followed closely behind Stephen, head bowed and struggling through the snow.
In contrast, the white Arabian seemed to glide effortlessly across the snow, head held high and appearing quite at ease.
Clearly, this horse was used to this kind of weather.
And so, the man and his horses slowly made their way forward. As the sun reached its zenith, Stephen finally neared his destination.
Looking at the narrowing path ahead, Stephen muttered, "Why would they choose to live up here in the mountains when they could live in town?"
Suddenly, a gust of wind blew, pelting Stephen's face with snow. He reached up to wipe it away, only to find black ash smeared across his brown gloves.
"What's going on? Why is there so much ash?" Stephen wondered aloud, looking around but seeing nothing.
"Could a fire be burning nearby? It shouldn't be possible with all this snow. Could something have happened to Mr. Yake's place?" A knot formed in Stephen's stomach. He wiped his face again and started running towards the Adler ranch, leading his horses behind him.
He was stunned by what he saw when he arrived at the ranch. The humble, cozy cabin had been reduced to a smoldering ruin, engulfed in flames.
"No, this can't be... Mr. Yake and Mrs. Sadie were always so careful. They wouldn't let something like this happen." Stephen couldn't believe his eyes. He dropped the reins and ran towards the burning wreckage.
*Thump!*
Stephen tripped over something on the ground. He scrambled to his feet and saw something that didn't fit.
He brushed away the snow and uncovered a body.
"A white man with a gun. Must be a bandit," Stephen muttered, his voice low and grim. "He's carrying a lantern, which means he died at night. Otherwise, he wouldn't need it."
He turned the body over and saw a bullet hole in the man's back. "Shot in the back, right through the heart. The shooter must've been an expert."
The man had only one wound. Stephen reached into the hole and extracted a yellow bullet.
"Just a regular revolver bullet, nothing special." Stephen looked up.
They were in the middle of nowhere, and based on the way the body fell and the location of the wound, the shooter had been standing by the cowshed.
That was 20 meters from the house. Being able to hit a running man in the dark from so far away meant that the shooter was a crack shot.
Who fired the shot? Mr. Yake or Mrs. Sadie? Both of them were good with guns, in Stephen's mind.
Stephen looked at the corpse again and noticed the man's green scarf. It was the mark of the O'Driscoll gang.
The O'Driscolls were a notorious gang in the West. Their leader, Colm O'Driscoll, was a ruthless man.
They robbed and murdered without a second thought. Stephen had arrested a few O'Driscolls before. Could this be revenge?
No, Stephen shook his head. Besides himself and a few friends, no one knew about the Adlers.
It was more likely a robbery gone wrong.
