Chapter Two — The Price of a Bullet

By sunset, only four shooters remained.

Mara.

A former cavalry scout named Elias Boone.

A young outlaw called Jesse Vale.

And Silas Creed.

The townspeople had stopped gambling.

They were watching history unfold.

That evening, Mara discovered that Creed had been asking questions about her.

She found Elias sitting alone behind the abandoned blacksmith shop.

“You knew my father,” Mara said.

Elias didn’t answer immediately.

“Thomas Vey?”

Mara nodded.

“He wasn’t a thief.”

“I know.”

“You were there?”

“I was.”

Elias stared at the ground.

“Creed wanted your father’s land. Your father refused to sell. So Creed needed another reason to take it.”

Mara’s hand tightened around her revolver.

“The gold?”

“Creed planted it in your father’s office.”

“And you said nothing.”

Elias looked ashamed.

“I was twenty-three. I was afraid.”

Mara studied him.

“Fear explains silence. It doesn’t erase it.”

Before Elias could answer, gunfire exploded from the street.

Jesse Vale had challenged another contestant.

Three shots rang out.

When the smoke cleared, Jesse was standing alone.

But instead of celebrating, he looked toward Mara.

“You’ve been asking questions about Creed.”

“Yes.”

“Then you should know something.”

He stepped closer.

“Creed isn’t planning to let the contest finish.”

Mara frowned.

“What does that mean?”

Jesse lowered his voice.

“There’s a train arriving tomorrow morning. Creed has hired men to take the town’s gold shipment. He’s using the contest to keep everyone distracted.”

Mara looked toward the courthouse.

Suddenly, the shooting contest made sense.

It wasn’t about the prize.

It was a curtain.

And Creed was preparing to rob the town behind it.

That night, Mara entered the courthouse through a broken window.

She found the old county records hidden beneath the floorboards.

Among them was her father’s original financial ledger.

She opened it.

Every page had been altered.

But one page remained untouched.

A list of payments.

Names.

Dates.

And Creed’s signature.

Mara finally had proof.

Then she heard footsteps.

Creed stood in the doorway.

“You always were stubborn,” he said.

Mara raised her revolver.

“You murdered my father.”

Creed smiled.

“No. I destroyed him.”

He drew his gun.

Mara fired first.

Creed moved aside.

The bullet struck the wall.

He laughed.

“You’re quick.”

“So are you.”

He fired.

Mara dove behind the desk.

The courthouse filled with smoke.

When she looked up again, Creed was gone.

But on the floor lay a small envelope.

Inside was a single sentence:

Tomorrow, at noon, the last shot belongs to me.