Marchand was set up in two places. The body was set up, fully assembled, holding a rifle, in Perry’s rented bedroom. He had instructions to attempt negotiations with anyone who barged in, but to otherwise stay put. If someone approached after being warned away, he would shoot them. The rifle had been set up very carefully, with Marchand’s finger at the ready. The fingers had actuators inside them to independently drive motion, rather than just amplifying it, and the armor was studded with all kinds of cameras.

  The helmet had been set in the other room, looking out over the streets. It was on battery, fully charged, talking to the body in the other room.

  Both of them were connected to the earpiece, which Perry wore while he sat in the main room of the saloon, talking to people and waiting around for something to happen.

  He’d talked to people about the attack that might be coming, trying to put an underline on the threat, and word was spreading, for all the good it would do. There was a militia that almost everyone was a part of, and people had promised to be on their guard, but they weren’t going to be staying up in the middle of the night for an attack that might not come. They would instead wear their clothes to bed and keep their weapons to hand, something that was apparently done in certain conditions, a practice that they had in place for other reasons.

  Then there wasn’t all that much left to do. He had his sword sheathed at his hip, he faced toward the saloon door, he listened to Marchand’s occasional reports, and it was only a matter of waiting.

  He ended up playing a game of cards when a group came to sit at the table he’d staked out. They had tried to get him to move, and he’d inquired about the deck of cards, which was enough for them to smell blood in the water.

  Perry had never been one for poker. There was too much uncertainty to it, and the interpersonal aspects tended to make him salty. He felt bad when he lost and didn’t feel particularly good when he won, and short of memorizing a bunch of probabilities — which he’d done — it felt very difficult to improve.

  The deck they were using wasn’t at all like the ones he was used to. There were five suits, and a whopping ten different one-off cards that he initially thought of as jokers, each with their own effects and orderings. The men had delighted in teaching him the rules, and they’d probably thought they were going to take him for a ride, but Perry was a quick learner, and had Marchand in his ear on top of that. There was a little rhyme to remember the effects of all the ‘jokers’, a simple ditty that helped make sense of their interactions.

  Play was pretty similar to Texas Hold ‘Em, in that there were community cards and everyone was trying to make the best hand. They were betting scrip, throwing it into the pot for each hand, with unlimited buy-in if people wanted to leverage some money. There was a small token that got passed around to mark the active player, which was important mostly because of how the jokers interacted with each other — they could boost, cancel, multiply, make wildcards, and generally threw the whole game into disarray.

  It turned out that Perry was actually pretty good at the game.

  There was a line of thinking that humans had basically had the same biological potential for intelligence through all of modern civilization, and that was something that Perry had plenty of cause to consider as he’d traveled the worlds. The argument against people being the same was that malnutrition and disease burden could impact how people developed, as well as childhood stress response patterns that could shape a developing brain. On the sociocultural side, systemic reasoning and abstract thinking on Perry’s Earth had reached dizzying heights, and he had been one of the beneficiaries.

  The frontiersmen were a worst case scenario in terms of disease, malnutrition, and education. Perry won hand after hand, usually because he was just making what he’d calculated to be the best play.

  It probably did help that he had an amazing poker face. It probably also helped that his senses were heightened, and that the cards had damage to them that left them marked, though he tried not to use that knowledge, as it seemed unsporting.

  He might have held back, might have strategically lost to keep the peace, but they were talking the whole time, and it was the talk that rankled Perry. He got their opinions on the Yuuks, on women, on various ethnic groups he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to tell apart, and a few jabs at scholarly sorts that he might have been inclined to interpret as friendly if he hadn’t just met these guys. Their comments on ‘those cocksucking types’ in the city were obviously directed at him.

  The more they insulted him, the better he felt about taking their money, and the more they lost, the more they drank, making their play worse. This led to more in the way of insults toward Perry, veiled or otherwise. They found him too neat and tidy, apparently, his teeth too white and straight, his skin not calloused enough. It was evidence of a lack of moral character.

  They were two hours in, with a pile of scrip in front of Perry, when it came to a head.

  “Alright, now how the goddamn did you make that call?” asked Nigel, the needle-nosed blacksmith with thick arms who’d been on the losing end of many exchanges.

  “I honestly don’t know what you thought you were bluffing,” said Perry. He pulled the scrip from the pile toward him, making a neat stack of it.

  “The Vixen,” said Nigel. “That much in the pot, there had to be a Vixen.”

  “Except you didn’t have a Vixen,” said Perry. “There’s a single Vixen and it’s in the discard.”

  “Discard’s face down for a reason, ain’t it?” asked Horace, a farmer who was sitting out after having lost most of his money.

  “You just … memorize the cards,” said Perry. “If you didn’t want people to do that, you should shuffle between hands.”

  “You’ve been memorizing the cards?!” asked Nigel, slamming a fist down on the table. “Never would have figured you for a cheat.”

  Perry looked at him. “It’s public information. There’s nothing stopping anyone from doing it.”

  “You could tell us what’s in the whole deck?” asked Nigel. “Horseshit.”

  “I didn’t say the whole deck,” said Perry. “But the remaining jokers, yes. I mean, there are only ten of them, you can count them on your toes if you have to.”

  “He’s a sharp,” said Nigel. He got up from his chair. He had been drinking, which hadn’t helped his play, and his face was red. “I want my money back. Whole game’s been rigged from the start.”

  Perry stayed where he was and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t care about the money, but I do care about the principle of the thing,” said Perry. “You want out, that’s fine, but you’re not getting your share of my winnings back.”

  Nigel lifted up an empty glass from the table and threw it at Perry’s head.

  Perry caught it and set it down gently on the table.

  “If you think I’m good at cards, you should see how good I am at fighting,” said Perry with a smile.

  For some reason, he’d thought that this would defuse the tension, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. He’d also thought that if it came down to it, it would just be him against the burly blacksmith, but the guy on his left, who everyone called Blowfish, tried to sucker punch him in the head. Perry leaned back to dodge it, then tipped his chair over and flipped up to his feet without missing a beat. He put his fists up.

  “Not in the saloon!” called Cleo, and Perry glanced at her.

  He’d been baiting another attack by looking away, and it came swiftly, a straight-legged kick to his knee. Perry moved his foot at the last second, then kicked upward, catching the outstretched leg. The guy who’d tried to kick him was flipped around and smashed his head against the floor, leaving an opening for another of the poker players to come forward. It had started as five on one, but they were already down to four. The four men surrounded him. They had all been on the losing end of his superior understanding of probabilities and a blank face, and he’d noticed that they were none too happy about it.

  “So, believe it or not, I’ve never been in a bar brawl,” said Perry. “Not sure what the rules are here, and as you fellows were so eager to teach me cards, I was hoping that you’d tell me what the dos and don’ts of fighting drunk idiots is.”

  One of them was right behind Perry, completely out of line of sight, but Perry had heightened senses, and the rush of air, the sound of his feet, and even the smell all gave the man away. Perry dodged left and grabbed an outstretched arm, whipping the other man around and lifting the arm up behind the man’s back as high as it would go, straining against the connective tissue.

  “For example,” said Perry. “Coming at a man from behind seems unsporting. How do we feel about breaking arms and legs? Because that seems unsporting to me too, but I’m willing to do as the locals do.”

  He pushed the man forward, toward Nigel, tangling them up, and while he was still on the move, Perry broke left, punching Horace in the solar plexus — not hard enough to break anything, but enough to leave him on the ground, groaning and clutching his chest. Perry kicked backward, catching the man who’d been coming at him from behind in the stomach, and spun on his heel as he brought his leg down to survey where Nigel was standing with his pistol drawn.

  “Now hold on,” said Perry. “I thought this was a brawl. You get mad I’m better at cards than you, you try to rough me up, I beat you down while being mindful of Cleo’s furniture, we all have a good laugh about how outclassed you are, that kind of thing.”

  “I oughta shoot you right here,” said Nigel.

  “For fuck’s sake, Nigel!” called Cleo. Perry looked over at her. She’d brought a shotgun up from behind the bar. “He’s Commission, can’t you see that?” She had the shotgun aimed squarely at Nigel.

  Nigel licked his lips. “Seems as though someone from the Commission wouldn’t cheat at cards.”

  “I wasn’t cheating, just paying attention,” said Perry. “Seems like I didn’t need to cheat to trounce you.”

  “You’re mouthin’ off a lot for a man with a gun pointed at his heart,” said Nigel. He ran his tongue over his teeth.

  “Nigel, you shoot that man, I’ll shoot you right back,” Cleo said. “Now the first shell is rock salt, but you know the one after that is more serious than a little seasoning.”

  Nigel grunted, then slowly put his gun back in its holster and put his fists up instead.

  “No, none of that,” said Cleo, not lowering her shotgun.

  “Just need to teach him some manners, if nothing else,” said Nigel. Two of the four men on the floor had gotten back to their feet.

  “Don’t worry Cleo, I’ll take them out without any damage to the furniture, I was raised with some manners,” said Perry.

  “I question the wisdom of this fight, sir,” said Marchand into Perry’s ear.

  When they came at Perry, it was tempting to just break them completely. He could maybe have done that and claimed self-defense, smashing the heel of his hand into someone’s nose hard enough that he’d never breathe right again. Instead, he handled them with restraint.

  Nigel went down first with a roundhouse punch to the side of his head. He had barely hit the floor before the next man had his legs kicked out from under him and fell to the floor. The last of them came at Perry, and Perry flipped him up and over, getting perilously close to sending the man straight out one of the saloon’s front windows. Perry grabbed his leg and yanked him back at the last minute, and he collapsed on the floor just inches short of the wall.

  Perry looked around, waiting for someone else to come at him, then walked over to the bar, where Cleo was putting her shotgun away.

  “See?” he asked. “No damage to the furniture, I was a gentleman about it.”

  “Take your scrip up off the table,” said Cleo with a disapproving frown.

  Perry did as was requested, gathering up his winnings from the last pot. He gave half the stack to Cleo, which perked her right up.

  “Some of that is for all the trouble,” he said. “The rest is for a shot of your finest liquor.”

  She smiled at him and poured from the same bottle she used for every shot, and Perry downed it. He had been prepared for it to manifest as tequila or something, but it was almost chokingly flavored of apples.

  The men that Perry had beaten got up, one by one, some with the help of their friends, and limped out of the saloon. If there were any dirty words in Perry’s direction, they were said low enough that Perry couldn’t hear them. He was pretty sure he hadn’t broken any bones, only dazed and bruised the men.

  “Was that entirely necessary, sir?” asked Marchand.

  “I’m hoping that people will take me a little more seriously now,” said Perry.

  “Well,” said Cleo, “More seriously as a fighter, less seriously as a scholar. Was that all guff, two days ago, you going on about a book on the frontier?”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “No, not at all,” said Perry. “Just because a man can fight doesn’t mean that he’s got nothing up here.” He tapped his head. “Another shot, please.”

  Cleo poured it for him. She was hovering near him, but the bar was relatively empty. There was another man, the one from the train with no face, who was sitting in front of a shot glass that he had no mouth to drink. He had no way to call out an order either, but apparently he was content to sit there without a face.

  This time the shot tasted of cinnamon, a strong flavor that did almost nothing to cover up the alcohol. It didn’t go down smooth, but Perry kept himself from coughing. If the drinks were variable, different every time, he wondered whether anyone ever got a bit of poison with theirs.

  “You’d better slow down, if you’re thinking there’s going to be an attack tonight,” said Cleo.

  “I’m not sure there will be,” said Perry. “It could be that it comes to nothing, but the Yuuks know the harmonizer is here. They can probably tell, if it extends into their territory, but they probably figured it out when the rest of their group didn’t come back.”

  “Filthy Yuuks and their savage ways,” said Cleo, shaking her head.

  “Mmm,” said Perry. It would be less acceptable to get in a bar fight with her, he imagined.

  “You know, there was a plan to wipe ‘em all out, a while back,” said Cleo. “Commission plan, as I understand it. But that wasn’t done, for whatever reason, and they’re sitting there close by, ready to strike, as you say. Saloon should be fine, but if the word comes, I’ll get all the women upstairs.” She nodded down to where her shotgun was hidden. “If they come in, they’ll get something stronger than just salt for their trouble.”

  “They’re mostly upset over the rails,” said Perry. “And they depend on the Flux.”

  Cleo laughed and gave him a skeptical look. “You might be Commission of some sort or another, but you don’t know the first thing about the Yuuks. Is that how they’re seen in the city? Is that how people talk about them? I don’t think they do, but if that’s what the Commission thinks, then it makes sense why they’re not lending their support.”

  “The Commission cares more about money and trade than anything else,” said Perry. He let out a sigh.

  Probably she did have a point, not that the Yuuks were filthy or savage, but that they were engaged in an extended, uneven, undeclared war with each other. You did not, in fact, have to ‘both sides’ colonial aggression, but did Perry really believe that sexual violence was off the table for the Yuuks? Did he think that they weren’t killers? Of course they were killers, he’d seen that with his own eyes, and maybe there was a justification for it, maybe the Yuuks thought the settlers were equally inhuman, but that was just normal in a war between people.

  “And what do you care about?” asked Cleo, idly wiping down the bar in front of him.

  Perry looked up at her. “Basic decency,” said Perry. “I’d like to sit down at a card game and not be implied to be a cocksucker.”

  “That set you off, did it?” asked Cleo. A half-smile played at her lips.

  “Not the words, the attitude,” said Perry, shaking his head. “I mean, I don’t, I’m not, but I don’t think it would be such a bad thing, certainly an insult I wouldn’t use — I apologize for the fight, but they started it.”

  “And you ended it,” said Cleo. “Without breaking the furniture or busting out a window, which I do appreciate.” She’d put the scrip he’d given her inside her bra. It was a sizeable sum, if Perry understood the local economy correctly. “But if you want basic decency, I’m not sure beating the shit out of people is the way to get it.”

  Perry was feeling a bit of a buzz from the shots, and the beers he’d drank before that, while playing cards. Second sphere provided him with some defense against alcohol, if he chose to use it, and he pulsed his aura, taking some of the edge off.

  “I do agree, by the by,” said Cleo.

  “With what?” asked Perry. “That decency flows from the fist of the righteous?”

  “No,” said Cleo, shaking her head. “That the noble art of cocksucking gets a bad rap.”

  “Not quite what I said, even if I agree,” said Perry. He laughed a little.

  “You know, most men who start fights here are all fists and no finesse,” said Cleo. “You moved like you were dancing.”

  “I’ve been known to dance,” said Perry. “Though I suspect the style I’m accustomed to is a bit different.”

  Cleo raised an eyebrow. She’d leaned forward slightly, showing off her cleavage, slightly padded on the left side by the lump of scrip. She smelled like saltwater with a fragrance of lilacs over it. “And what style is that? Something fancy from the city?”

  “Something like that,” said Perry. “I have to warn you, I lead with authority. I’ll have to show you some time.”

  “Well, you’re mighty good at both fighting and cards,” said Cleo. “Makes a woman wonder what else you’re good at.”

  “I’m a man of mystery,” said Perry. He grinned at her. He was getting used to the line of black rot on her face. The shots of mystery liquor certainly helped with that.

  “Oh, not so mysterious,” she said. “I’ve got you figured.”

  “And how’s that?” asked Perry.

  “You’re a dangerous man, that’s clear enough,” she said. “Smart, capable, handsome, charming, ready to have his way with the world. But lonely, I’d guess, all that time out in the world alone.”

  “Mmm,” said Perry. “Not sure what ‘having my way with the world’ means, to be honest.”

  “I could show you,” said Cleo. Her voice was soft, and she leaned just a bit closer. “I could show you what having your way with a part of the world would be like.”

  Perry swallowed. She’d offered before, and he’d turned her down, but it was appealing to him more now. “Why don’t you come upstairs with me then,” said Perry. “Let’s see what part of the world is on offer.”

  He had thought maybe that would be pushing it too far, that flirtation wasn’t actually invitation, but she called one of the other girls over to take her place behind the bar, then went up, leading him to bed.

  ~~~~

  Cleo was slow to get her clothes back on. She had lit up a cigar and offered Perry one, though he’d demurred.

  “See, now I know you’re not Commission,” she said. “A Commission man wouldn’t have done that.”

  “Maybe I’m bad at my job,” said Perry. He’d gotten his pants back on, but was waiting on the edge of the bed for her to get up. The process of removing her clothes had taken some time, and it seemed that she wasn’t eager to put it all back on.

  “No, whatever your job is, I have to imagine you’re extremely good at it,” said Cleo.

  “Sometimes,” said Perry.

  “But you have to know that letting people think you’re Commission is a train that leads straight to the shadow of the Light,” said Cleo.

  “The marshal isn’t part of the Commission?” asked Perry.

  Cleo laughed, then looked at him. “You ask a lot of questions it seems you should know the answers to.”

  “The funny thing is, people are always so ready to share their trauma, their drama, their gossip,” said Perry. “But they’re never ready to lay out the foundational structure of their governance, policing, agriculture, or technology.”

  Cleo laughed again. She was in a good mood after having sex, giggly and energetic. “I can tell you whatever you want to know, mister.”

  “The marshal,” said Perry. “He’s a part of the Commission?”

  “They set the law, and he’ll enforce it, best of his ability,” said Cleo. “Plus he’s more or less sheriff, at least for the time being. Wyatt was angling for it, though maybe getting shot in the shoulder will disabuse him.”

  “So he’s a lackey,” said Perry. “Not someone to be feared.”

  “Feared?” asked Cleo. “I don’t know him, but marshals have a reputation. If you don’t know anything, if you want me to treat you like you were born yesterday, then — well, the marshals come in different stripes, but you don’t get to be a marshal without being an expert marksman. You also don’t get to be that without having a nasty streak.”

  Perry nodded. “Very helpful, thank you. And if the marshal is under the impression that I’m Commission, who does he think that would be?”

  Cleo stared at Perry as she took a long drag from her cigar. “Commission’s got all sorts.”

  “And you could list them for me?” asked Perry.

  She giggled again. “I know the width and length of many things, but the Commission’s not one of them. But you’ve got your K-men, those are the strong and tough types, they say you can empty two six-shooters into them and they’ll keep coming, can outrun a train if they have to. And then there’s the Black Peonies, no two of them alike, but you hear stories, I guess. A woman who can break a man’s bones just by touching him. A man who flits around like a hummingbird. The kinds of people that the Commission almost has to send out of the city, because they’d be too dangerous otherwise. And then there’s the Taxmen, who have their own people, and if one of them gets called down on you, you’ll be a shell of a man ever after.”

  “Hmm,” said Perry. “And people think I’m a K-man, is that it?”

  “You’re too fast and too gentle for a K-man,” said Cleo. “And I’ve never seen one, but they’re got a reputation for being on the straight and narrow. No drinks, no whores, not even a fine cigar to wind down an evening. And that’s two out of three for you.”

  “So I’m a Peony, is that it?” asked Perry.

  “Oh, I don’t think you’re that either,” said Cleo. “Though I can’t say I’ve met one of them either. And if you’re really not with the Commission, you’re playing a dangerous game, liable to draw their attention sooner than later. Could be that there was someone aside from the marshal on that train, you never know. Usually they don’t announce themselves.” She placed her cigar in the ashtray. “Or I’m just an ignorant woman who runs a saloon and doesn’t know the Commission from a hole in the ground.” She shrugged and then sat up, swinging her legs off the side of the bed. “I suppose, now that I’ve had my biscuit buttered, I better go get back down to tend the bar. Shouldn’t have left Tilde in charge, she’s too generous with her pours.”

  She dressed in silence, which was apparently quite a process, particularly the doing up of her corset, and when she was finished, she gave Perry a long kiss on the lips. She tasted overwhelmingly of cigar smoke, but Perry didn’t mind it too much — he’d had more than enough time to acclimate to the smell of the saloon.

  “Might I inquire as to whether this was all part of the plan, sir?” asked Marchand.

  “Got us some information, didn’t it?” asked Perry.

  “I do think she would have been amenable to simply asking, sir,” said Marchand. “And I am not sure you’re leaving a good impression on the locals.”

  “I don’t think I care too much about the locals,” said Perry. His mind went to Anaksi, who was presumably still sitting in her jail cell. He went over to the window and looked down the street, where nothing had visibly changed. He’d had a long day, and it was still light out. “I care about the other thresholder.”

  “Who remains unidentified, sir, unless you’ve reached some conclusion you have not shared with me,” said Marchand.

  “How close are we to being back online?” asked Perry. “Fully, I mean.”

  “Two hours, sir,” said Marchand.

  “Still no sign of Queenie?” asked Perry.

  “No, sir,” said Marchand. “Though I should say that I have not actually seen the woman, and have only your description to go off of. We are relying on your powers of observation here, sir.”

  “You’d notice the chipped tooth and Australian accent, I think,” said Perry. “The red scarf.”

  “And you imagine that she’s a thresholder, sir?” asked Marchand.

  “I do,” said Perry. “Or I guess it’s possible she’s Commission. Keep your eyes peeled. I’m going to suit up as soon as you’re ready, then stake out a place somewhere up high.”

  “Do you plan to sleep, sir?” asked Marchand. “I am aware that you can go without, but I cannot say I find that wise.”

  “No rest for the wicked,” said Perry. He stretched out.

  “May I say, sir, that you seem different,” said Marchand.

  “How so?” asked Perry.

  “Quicker to anger, quicker to sleep with that woman,” said Marchand.

  “Maybe it’s because here, I can,” said Perry. “It’s the Wild West, a bar fight is expected here, bedding a woman I hardly know is par for the course. I’d almost say I was enjoying it, except that I find these people odious.”

  “Do remember not to get shot in the head, sir,” said Marchand. “During the fight I couldn’t quite work out where that man’s pistol was pointed, but you aren’t bulletproof without the armor.”

  “That’s fair,” said Perry. “I’m going back down, I’ll be up as soon as you’re booted.”

  “Booted in limited capacity, sir,” said Marchand.

  “I’ll be happy to be encased again,” said Perry.

  He got his clothes back on and went downstairs. The faceless man was still sitting at the bar, but his glass was empty since last Perry had seen it, so presumably something had happened to the liquid.

  Perry took a seat at the table where he’d been playing cards before, and faced outward, just as before, so he had a look out the windows.

  If the Yuuks didn’t end up attacking, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. He wasn’t sure whether he was going to let Anaksi be hanged by these ignorant jackals, but he wasn’t particularly inclined to, and breaking her out of jail would be as easy as punching a hole in the wall of the sheriff’s office in the middle of the night.

  The important thing was to prepare for the arrival of the Farfinder, for the discovery or arrival of the other thresholder, to grow in power rather than clowning on small town idiots who were upset about being bad at cards. He tried to find some steel core of resolve within himself, but he was a king in this place, and he enjoyed that, as much as he would never admit that to Marchand. If he hung around for another week being cock of the walk, so what? He was gaining power even now, with the academic tether growing just a bit fatter with every discovery. Maybe he would write a book, though he’d spent enough time on Markat with nothing to do that it didn’t quite have any appeal.

  Maybe instead he would figure out what these K-men were, and whether he could become one. Being bulletproof seemed a lot better than taking a bullet and slowly building the flesh back up with great expenditures of his energy reserves.

  But if he wanted to stick around Grabler’s Gulch, he’d done it all wrong, and it might be better to just hop aboard the train when it left for Charlonion, either stopping off somewhere along the way or taking it all the way to the city. He could start fresh, create a base of operations for himself, and with a better cover story that he’d take more care with. Not that it seemed to matter all that much.

  Perry drank a little more than he should have while he waited. He made some friendly conversation with the locals, watching his tongue as much as he could, trying to keep up the facade of being a dandy scholar of some kind. He wasn’t sure how much they bought it, but he also cared less with every passing minute.

  A part of him was stuck wondering how he’d stack up against one of the K-men, or the Black Peonies, or any of the other people with a grip on some kind of power. That was what he was craving, if anything, some sense of how far the language of power had developed in this place, what violence looked like when it wasn’t some group of yokels. Some of this was operational curiosity, the kind of thing he would need to know before making larger moves, but some of it ran deeper.

  The cry of alarm came up from outside while Perry was nursing a beer, and he immediately pulsed energy through his body, trying his best to kill the alcohol and get him sharp again.

  “Marchand?” asked Perry.

  “A formidable number of Yuuks have appeared on the horizon,” said Marchand. “They’ve come from the south, on horseback, and are pushing hard.”

  “How long until reboot?” asked Perry.

  “Half an hour, sir,” said Marchand.

  Whatever battle was about to happen, it would be over by then. Perry got to his feet, found himself somewhat unsteady, and pulsed his aura again. He was only slightly buzzed, and didn’t know that it would matter all that much anyhow. He was going in with his sword, and against unarmored opponents, it would slice through them like butter, slowing only briefly for bones.

  “Alright,” said Perry to the saloon at large. “The Yuuks are here, and we’re going to stop them.”

  He checked the sword at his hip, then walked out the door, to where the militia was already gathering. The marshal had taken the lead already, and cast a frightened look in Perry’s direction, but Perry only nodded at him. The fight was coming, and that felt good, even if there was no chance the opponent would be worthy.