Boots Henry's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Boots Henry cleaned his revolver at the table, counting the bullets one by one. Seven bullets had made seven orphans, and now those seven hellions were his to raise. He'd given his word to their dying mother after a job went wrong, and Boots kept his promises. But feeding seven mouths took money he didn't have. He needed something bigger than odd jobs and small-time work. An outlaw gang that controlled the frontier territories—that was the answer. Real power meant real profit, and profit meant keeping those kids fed. The old abandoned mine sat three miles outside of town, its entrance boarded up with weathered planks. Rusted rails snaked from the opening, ending at overturned carts half-buried in sand. Boots pulled away two boards and peered inside. The tunnel stretched back into darkness, cool air drifting out. Perfect. No one came here anymore, and the space could hold twenty men easy. This would be his headquarters. He rode back toward town and spotted the wooden corral near the edge of the settlement. Sand had worn the posts smooth, but the structure held firm. Horses stood inside, tails flicking at flies. The gate was built from old barrel slats, hinged with leather straps. His future gang members would need a place to tie up their horses when they met. This spot would work. Boots headed into the desert to scout drop points for messages and stolen goods. A gnarled dead tree stood alone in the sand, its twisted branches reaching like skeletal fingers. At its base, tumbleweeds had gathered against a wooden chest. He kicked the weeds aside and opened the lid. Empty, but dry inside. He'd tell his contacts about this spot—hidden enough for secrets, easy enough to find if you knew where to look. The pieces were falling into place. His gang would rise, and those seven hellions would never go hungry again.