Outnumbered? I'll conquer America with an unlimited number of suicide soldiers.

Inside a smoky investment firm on Montgomery Street.

Well-dressed upper-middle-class gentlemen, smoking Havana cigars, gathered around a huge blackboard displaying the day's stock prices of various California companies written in chalk.

"What the hell is that damned idiot Mokel Mihiel up to?"

A ruddy-faced businessman cursed, "I thought I'd hit the bottom a few days ago, so I bought in at six dollars and fifty cents! It finally went back up, and now it's fucking starting to drop again!"

"Friend, relax."

Another businessman casually flipped through the San Francisco News, pointing to a blurry photograph and chuckling, "Didn't this morning's paper say that Michael's security detail was only delayed for half a day because the mountain road was washed away by the rain? They returned safely to the company yesterday afternoon. It's just stock price fluctuations; they'll be back eventually."

He closed the newspaper and took another sip of his drink: "If you ask me, you should really learn from me and not put all your eggs in one basket. Besides gold mining stocks, I also bought bonds for the New York Erie Railroad and the Michigan Central Railroad; those are truly long-term, stable investments."

Meanwhile, the atmosphere was equally tense at a brokerage firm in Sacramento.

"Damn it! That Mokeler-Mihiel Mining Company in San Francisco is in trouble again!"

An investment broker rubbed his temples and complained, "When stock prices drop, my clients practically wear out my door, all asking me if they should cut their losses."

His companion, a cigar dangling from his lips, asked疑惑地问道, "Last time the news was released by North Star Mining Company, who's behind it this time?"

"Whoever it is, if the news is true, someone who can take down eleven people in one go is definitely not some small force."

The person behind another desk in the distance stood up. "Stop guessing, hurry up and contact the client. Advise them to sell some shares first; cutting their losses is the right thing to do."

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Inside Wild Wolf Town.

Almost a week has passed since the massacre of David's family. The bloody words on the wall have long been covered with whitewash, but the blurry outlines can still be seen.

The wind howled through the buildings, its mournful sound like a wail. The townspeople quickened their pace as they passed by.

Inside the sheriff's office, Henry looked exhausted after traveling for several days.

He shook his head at Connor and Wells, who came to him, his voice hoarse: "I've inquired in the bounty hunter circles of San Francisco and Sacramento, and they all say they've never heard of this person."

It's either a pseudonym, or it's a newly emerged person eager to make a name for themselves.

Wells spat and said, "A pseudonym? That's impossible. What's the point of writing that stuff?"

"It's not a pseudonym, it's a deterrent." Connor took a deep breath. "That thug wanted to tell everyone that if he dared to leave his name, he wouldn't be afraid of being investigated."

As the three were chatting, a sudden, rapid sound of horses' hooves, like the beating of drums, came from afar and grew louder.

The three men, startled like birds, immediately drew their revolvers. The townspeople on the street scattered in an instant, hiding back inside their houses and tightly closing their doors and windows, peeking out only through the cracks.

A group of about twenty riders swept through the town's main street at breakneck speed, kicking up clouds of dust. The leader, dressed in an exquisite woolen coat, was whipping his mount wildly, while fully armed guards followed closely behind.

Without stopping, the team swept through the town like a whirlwind and sped towards the mountains to the northeast.

Wells narrowed his eyes and asked suspiciously, "The one leading the group seems to be that son of a bitch, Mokel Mishir, the mine owner."

"It's him." Connor holstered his gun, his brow furrowed. "Why are you rushing back with all your weapons? Has something happened at the mine too?"

Standing in his second-floor room, he watched through the window as Mokeler and his party sped past, while communicating with Dutch and Hosea, who were in San Francisco and Sacramento, respectively.

"My lord, the three thousand shares purchased three days ago have all been sold on the market at seven dollars per share. Their company's gold-backed bills for next month have also been sold at 80% of face value."

"Total revenue was $29,240, and after deducting costs, net profit was around $14,000."

"What a windfall!"

He once whistled and said, "Send the money to the factory, and buy whatever those four want."

He turned his gaze away from Mokeler and his group, and smiled slightly: "As for Mr. Mokeler, I originally intended to kill him in San Francisco. But since he's delivered himself to our doorstep, that's fine too."

"Arthur, take all your men and kill them! But remember, Mokel Mishir must live. I want to settle accounts with him myself!"

"Yes."

After giving the order, he went downstairs and said to Ezekiel, who was working at the door, "Ezekiel, lock up the stables. Take your men and come with me!"

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Mokel Mihir was completely unaware of the impending hunt. He was frantic, leading his men in a frantic race towards the mine.

He had already been to Wolf Valley.

The exit was completely blocked by trees and boulders, which intensified his ominous premonition.

With a ten-dollar reward, a guard volunteered to climb over and check.

Behind that, eleven mutilated corpses, maimed beyond recognition by wolves, confirmed the newspaper's account, shattering his last shred of hope.

"If the gold is stolen, so be it; but the gold mine must not be lost."

That was the foundation of all his wealth and status, the most important golden goose!

As the group drew closer to the mine, Mokel spurred his horse to land in the middle of the group and shouted, "Be on high alert! There may be bandits around the mine!"

"Mr. Michael, don't worry."

The head of the security company was a middle-aged white man with a mustache, carrying a Sharps carbine. "We're very experienced at handling these kinds of things."

With a gesture from him, the two riders spurred their horses and charged out of the ranks like arrows, scouting the road ahead and the hillsides on either side.

"Mr. Michael, the scouts will scout ahead for us first. Until then, we can slow our horses down a bit to conserve their strength."

boom! boom! boom!

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a sharp gunshot rang out from ahead, followed by the muffled thud of a man being shot and falling from his horse, and a short scream of agony!

"Is there really an ambush?"

The man with the mustache's eyes sharpened, and he commanded, "Two people take Mr. Michael to a safe place to hide. The rest of you, come with me!"

"Charge straight in?" Mokel frowned. "What if the gang has a lot of members?"

"Mr. Michael, a real gang's core doesn't exceed twenty people. Any more than that, and the money they rob wouldn't be enough to go around. Internal strife would bring them down."

The man with the mustache spoke rapidly, "Anyone who can support dozens or hundreds of people is called an army or corporate security, not a gang."

After saying that, he took the lead and charged towards the source of the gunfire with more than a dozen guards.

A dozen seconds later, after rounding a bend in the mountain road, the two scouts who had been sent out earlier were found dead in the middle of the road.

Dozens of yards behind their bodies, seven or eight riders were scattered along the edge of the road and woods, holding long spears and coldly watching the charging group.

"Just as I expected."

A hint of disdain flashed across the man with the mustache, and he fired his Sharps carbine first. "Go! Kill them!"

The riders opposite seemed to be frightened by this scene, and without hesitation turned their horses around and fled in disarray.

"Chase! Don't let a single one escape!" The guards' fighting spirit was completely ignited. They shouted and urged their horses to give chase, bullets whistling as they shot at the fleeing figures.

The chase lasted for several minutes, and as they rushed up a wide hillside, Brock's heart sank.

Suddenly, the bandits ahead all reined in their horses and turned their guns. Almost simultaneously, the sound of galloping hooves echoed from the woods on both sides. More than thirty riders surrounded them from all directions, forming a tight encirclement and completely trapping the dozen or so men on the hillside!

"Fuck!"

The man with the mustache clearly understood that he had fallen into a trap. He acted decisively, raising both hands in a French military salute.

"Gentlemen, we surrender!"

A few dozen dollars a month? Why risk your life like that!

boom!boom!boom!boom!

He was met with a merciless barrage of fire from all directions!

The hail of bullets engulfed the guards in the encirclement, and after several rounds of firing, the guards fell silent.

Arthur blew away the smoke from the revolver's muzzle, his gaze sweeping over the corpses strewn across the ground. "Leave a few men to clean up the battlefield; the rest of you, come with me to capture that Mokel Mihir."

"Remember your master's orders: live!"

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Meanwhile, on the other side...

Behind a boulder, two guards stood on either side of Mokel, holding carbines in their hands.

"Mr. Michael, there's no need to look so serious."

One of the guards said in a relaxed tone, "There are at most a dozen or so people on the other side. With our boss's marksmanship and the rate of fire of that Sharps carbine, it shouldn't be long before you're able to go to the mine."

Before they could finish speaking, they heard the thunderous sound of horses' hooves ahead.

"Listen, they're back."

The guard smiled and leaned out to look into the distance. Just as he was about to wave, his expression suddenly changed.

The riders who galloped towards them were strangers and silent; their horses and attire were unfamiliar, and their faces were covered with veils.

"Hurry up!"

The two men hurriedly helped Mokeller onto his horse, their whips leaving afterimages as they lashed out.

But it was too late.

As we all know, horses are very slow at the start of a race, and that time is enough for the assassins to catch up and block the three men's path.

boom!boom!

Without a word, two shots were fired and the two guards were sent away. Then dozens of guns, both long and short, were pointed at Mokeler.

Mokel quickly raised his hands and said, "I am Mokel Michel. Do you want money? I can pay the ransom!"

No one spoke; they simply stepped forward in silence, roughly pulled him off his horse, removed his weapons, and then tied him to a tree.

"No money? You're not a gang? Well, there's no way a gang with that many members could exist in California!"

Mokel dared not resist, repeatedly asking, "Who sent you? North Star Mining Company? Imperial Mining Company? Or the British Anglo-California Gold Mining Company?"

"They want to swallow my mine, right? I can talk! I can talk about the acquisition! As long as you release me, everything is negotiable!"

Annoyed by the incessant chatter, Arthur grabbed the face mask from John's face, crumpled it into a ball, and shoved it into Mokeler's mouth.

"Finally, it's quiet."

After waiting for a few minutes, the group suddenly looked in one direction at the same time. They quickly dismounted, knelt on one knee before the newcomer, and spoke in unison.

"My lord!"

With his mouth gagged, Mokel stared in disbelief at the scene before him. He watched as the newcomer dismounted, and the brutal bandits all bowed their heads as if welcoming a king.

A Chinese guy? How could he possibly be a Chinese guy?!

Moreover, that title is usually used to address royalty, nobility, or Jesus Christ. Why should a yellow-skinned Chinese person be entitled to it?!

The man walked up to him, removed the face mask, and said softly, "Mokel Mihir, I've wanted to see you for a long time."

Mokel's mind raced. Although he couldn't comprehend what was happening, his survival instinct forced him to force a smile. "Respected Mr. Qing, I believe we have no enmity."

He didn't answer, but Ezekiel stepped forward and slapped Mokel hard across the face with both hands.

"Slap! Slap!"

Mokeller's face swelled up instantly, and his mouth was full of blood.

Looking at that pig-like face, I slowly said, "There are two mistakes in what you said."

"First of all, I am a Han Chinese, not a Qing Chinese, and have nothing to do with those Tungusic wild boars."

"Secondly, there is a deep-seated grudge between us, you just don't know it."

Mokel's mind went blank for a moment, and he suddenly understood: "I know, you came for the group of Chinese laborers in the mine."

"I can release them and compensate you with a large sum of gold, how about it?"

He tilted his head slightly and said something that made Mokerer's hair stand on end: "Mr. Mokerer, you're wrong again. To be precise, I was one of those Chinese laborers and spent a very memorable time in the mines."

"Now tell me, how should I thank you?"

Mokel's expression was a mix of a smile and a cry. As the boss, he naturally knew what kind of lives those Chinese laborers were living.

And he finally understood why the cavalry had been attacked and why he was tied up here.

It wasn't a merger by competitors, nor was it the greed of a gang; it was simply because a big shot was hidden among the miners who had been bought!

"Sir, I don't know!"

Moker spoke urgently, trying to shift the blame: "Yi Hing Tong! It's Yi Hing Tong in Chinatown! They're the real culprits!"

"It was their people who came to the company and sold you and your compatriots to me like commodities! And the miners' weekly wages are also mostly taken away from them."

"Let me go, I'll take you to them! I know where they live!"

"Yi Xing Tang..."

Having memorized the name, he took the revolver Arthur handed him, pressed the hammer, and aimed the muzzle at Mokeler's distorted and terrified face.

"Mr. Mokeler, thank you for your intelligence."

"In return, I will grant you a quick death."

boom!