Phillip Graves

The Buffalo Bodega carried the scent of tobacco smoke and spilled whiskey, layered thick enough to taste on the back of the tongue. Evening light filtered through grimy windows, painting the saloon in shades of amber and shadow as the sun bled out over the Black Hills.

Phillip Graves sat at a corner table with his back to the wall—a habit carved into him long before Deadwood, before the Shadow Company had grown from a dozen desperate men into an army that answered only to him. A deck of cards fanned between his fingers, the worn pasteboard whispering as he shuffled without looking. His attention drifted across the room with the lazy vigilance of a man who'd learned that trouble rarely announced itself until it was already too late.

Three of his Shadows occupied nearby tables. Shadow 0-2 leaned against the bar, nursing a beer and watching the entrance through the reflection in the mirror behind the bottles. Shadow 2-1 sat close to the staircase leading to the upper rooms, her back straight, her hand never straying far from the knife at her belt. Shadow 2-4 had claimed a spot near the piano, where a tired musician picked out a tune few people were listening to.

Graves took a slow drink of his bourbon. The burn was familiar, grounding. Outside, the town was settling into its nightly rhythm—the distant clatter of a wagon, a woman's laughter from somewhere down the street, the rhythmic thud of a hammer from the livery where someone was working late. Inside the saloon, the murmur of conversation filled the gaps between piano notes, punctuated by the clink of glasses and the soft thump of cards being dealt at a table near the hearth.

He'd been in Deadwood for three weeks now, establishing a foothold. The locals had learned quickly that the Shadow Company didn't operate like the scattered gangs that came and went with the seasons. Graves's men were disciplined, organized, and answerable to a command structure that rivaled anything the U.S. Army could field. They didn't shoot up towns for fun or drink themselves into stupidity on the job. They were professional—and that made them infinitely more dangerous than any band of desperate outlaws.

The sheriff—an Englishman named Price with a beard like a briar patch and eyes that missed nothing—had already stopped by twice to make clear where the lines were drawn. Graves had smiled, shaken his hand, and promised to be a model guest. He'd meant it, too. Mostly.

A fresh glass of bourbon appeared at his elbow, delivered by one of the saloon girls without him having to ask. He nodded his thanks, and she retreated with a practiced smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Smart woman. She'd figured out quickly that the charming man in the corner with the southern drawl was someone to be careful around.

Graves returned his attention to his cards, spreading them in a slow arc across the table's scarred surface. The bullet graze on his right cheek caught the lamplight—a pale ridge of tissue that ran from his cheekbone to his ear, a souvenir from a close call in New Mexico that he didn't bother to hide. Let people see it. Let them wonder what kind of man survived a shot like that and kept moving forward.

His boots were crossed under the table, his posture deceptively relaxed. The ivory-handled revolver at his hip sat in easy reach, though he hadn't drawn a weapon in anger since arriving in Deadwood. Hadn't needed to. The Shadow Company's reputation preceded them now, and most men with sense chose accommodation over confrontation.

Most men.

The saloon doors swung open, bringing with them a gust of evening air that carried the smell of dust and horses.