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.

Boots needed men he could trust, but trust was hard to find in his line of work. He sat at the kitchen table that night, scratching names onto paper with a stub of pencil. Most were dead or locked up. Others had turned to ranching or run off to California. He crossed out another name, then another. The list kept shrinking until only three names remained—three men who might listen, who knew how to handle themselves in a fight. He folded the paper and tucked it into his coat pocket. Tomorrow he'd ride out and find them, one by one, and see if they were ready to build something that could last. Dawn came with pink light across the sand. Boots rode into town and stopped at the boat docks, where wooden planks creaked under his boots. Men unloaded crates from flat-bottomed barges, calling out cargo numbers and destinations. He leaned against a post and watched, listening. A gang needed information—what was coming in, what was valuable, who was moving it. This spot would tell him everything he needed to know. He tipped his hat to a dock worker and moved on. The mine headquarters needed water. Boots found four wooden barrels outside the general store and loaded them onto a wagon. He filled each one from the town pump, then drove them out to the abandoned mine. The barrels fit just inside the entrance, their wood dark with moisture. His men would need fresh water when they gathered here. Small details mattered when building something meant to last. He mounted a bell on a wooden arch outside the mine entrance, its metal frame catching the afternoon sun. The rope hung down within easy reach. Boots pulled it once—the clang echoed across the desert. Perfect. When lawmen or rivals came riding up, whoever was on watch could ring the warning. His gang would have time to scatter or prepare. The pieces were in place. Now he just needed the men to fill them.