The room fell silent, the other patrons—hard men with scarred hands and wary eyes—sensing the storm about to break.Dutch rose slowly, his shadow swallowing the light as he turned to face Boone. In his hand was a Bowie knife, its blade glinting like a sliver of moonlight. Boone, his revolver waving wildly, grinned—a crooked, feral slash that promised blood. The sight of Dutch, a mountain of a man, would have stopped most in their tracks, but Boone was no ordinary man.

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