America 1883: The Western Homeland

Chapter 72 Another Unexpected Twist!

"Name?"

"Dan Marrero," Dan replied in a deep voice.

Tom nodded and turned to leave.

Behind him, Dan's deep voice sounded again, carrying a barely perceptible warning: "If I were you, I would leave Postman immediately!"

Tom paused, but didn't turn around, only letting out a soft chuckle: "Get the accounts organized. I'll come to check them in a few days."

Want him to leave? No way!

The two walked out of the bar, and this time, sure enough, no one followed them.

Inside the bar.

The man with the bushy mustache had a face so dark it looked like it could drip water, and he exuded a terrifyingly low pressure.

"Boss!" Several trusted cowboys surrounded him, all indignant. "Are we just going to let that kid go like that?"

Dan did not answer; his gaze swept over the crowd and was fixed on the bartender's corpse on the ground.

The blood had congealed, spreading a dark red stain on the floor.

"Bury him properly..." Dan's voice was icy cold, each word like it was tempered with ice.

He slowly raised his eyes, his gaze sharp as a knife, scraping across the faces of each of his men:

"No one is allowed to act rashly without my order."

Dan's gaze finally settled on the corpse, his voice as soft as a sigh, yet carrying a chilling undertone:

"Otherwise... your fate will be the same as his."

The cowboys, who had just been furious and clamoring for revenge, fell silent the moment they saw the cold, stiff corpse on the ground, as if they had been choked.

A chill ran from the soles of their feet straight to the top of their heads, silencing them completely.

Tom and skinny Zack stepped out of the bar; the night breeze was slightly cool.

At this moment, Tom has another bar "owned"—of course, only nominally.

He didn't really want to steal people's blood; he just wanted to have another intelligence gathering point in the town.

"Zack, find a place to stay. We'll be busy tomorrow!" Tom said in a low voice.

The two found a hotel.

Before going to bed, Tom lowered his voice and said to Zack, "You keep watch for the first half of the night, and I'll take over for the second half." Zack nodded vigorously.

Is this over?

How is that possible!

That's tens of thousands of acres of ranch!

Can a sheriff simply declare a rancher guilty with a few words? Can a land deed be transferred just like that?

Tom was filled with doubt, feeling that there was something unsettling and eerie about the whole thing.

As soon as Zack's snoring began to rise, Tom, as if blending into the shadows, quietly left the room in the middle of the night.

The next morning, Tom was awakened by urgent banging on the door.

As soon as Zach opened the door, a fully armed sheriff and his men barged in menacingly!

Zach was instantly stunned.

Tom stared at the sheriff with a meaningful look and a subtle, enigmatic smile playing on his lips.

"Lee White! You're a wanted criminal! Fraud! Murder! You're under arrest!" The sheriff flung open the wanted poster in his pocket, almost poking Tom in the face.

"Bullshit!" Zack blurted out angrily.

Before he could finish speaking, one of his deputies swung the butt of his rifle and smashed it hard into his stomach!

Zach groaned and curled up on the ground in pain.

"Your target is me," Tom said calmly, even with a hint of a smile, but his gaze was sharp as a knife. "Don't make things difficult for others. You know what I'm capable of."

The sheriff's eyes flickered slightly, and he raised his hand to stop his deputy from making another move.

Tom was taken out of the hotel and taken directly to the police station.

There were only two people left in the office.

Tom leisurely surveyed the surrounding furnishings, the shackles on his wrists seeming like insignificant decorations, more like a visiting guest.

"Can I ask you something?" Tom suddenly spoke up, "Since when did you decide to make me the scapegoat?"

The sheriff poured himself a glass of wine, seemingly in a good mood: "Young man, you don't seem surprised at all?"

"An accident?" Tom shook his head. "If it were me, I would have done the same, and... I would have done it even more ruthlessly than you."

"Oh?" The sheriff raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Tell me, what would you do?"

Tom leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on the other man: "When you killed Covington, you should have taken me with you!"

His voice wasn't loud, but every word was like a hammer blow.

The sheriff's heart skipped a beat, and the liquid in his glass sloshed slightly. "You killed Covington!" he almost growled.

Tom nodded frankly: "So, that's why you insist on pinning this blame on me."

He saw through the other person's thoughts.

The sheriff's eye twitched uncontrollably.

There was clearly no one else in the room, so why was this young man still "admitting" that he hadn't done anything?

A strong sense of unease instantly gripped him.

"You're a criminal! Now that you're in my hands, you're finished! Confess!" The sheriff's voice carried a hint of urgency that he himself didn't realize.

Tom laughed, a laugh brimming with an air of absolute control: "You really think you can rest easy after killing Covington and framing me?"

He seemed to hold the sheriff's fatal weakness in his hands.

The sheriff, increasingly panicked, repeated with a blustering tone, "You killed Covington!"

"Ha," Tom's smile deepened, tinged with mockery, "You burned the body, you did a good job of destroying the evidence. Too bad, the gun that killed Covington... I switched it."

"What!" The sheriff jumped up from his chair as if he had been branded with a hot iron! "Where's the gun?" he shouted angrily.

Tom just looked at him with a meaningful smile that sent chills down the sheriff's spine.

"Let me guess," Tom's voice held a knowing, playful glint, "if you hadn't run into me yesterday, would you have already taken your men and stormed the ranch to 'take care' of Covington?"

He didn't give the other party a chance to breathe or make excuses.

"Covington is leaving this morning... no, 'this morning at dawn,' and he won't set foot in this town again for the rest of the winter."

"You—can't—wait—long—long!"

"Someone come here!!!" the sheriff shouted at the top of his lungs towards the door.

There was complete silence outside the door.

There has been no response!

A chill instantly crept up the sheriff's spine.

He abruptly drew his gun and pointed it at Tom, his voice trembling: "Is someone coming to rescue you?"

"That's right," Tom replied crisply.

The sheriff looked in alarm at the tightly closed door.

Just then, a loud yet cold voice suddenly pierced through the door:

"Sheriff! I am a federal marshal stationed in Bozeman! Lay down your weapons immediately and come forward for questioning in federal court!"

The sheriff was struck dumb, staring incredulously at Tom, who remained seated firmly in his chair.

At this moment, Tom's smile was crystal clear, radiating the composure of a victor.

"Do you know why you lost?" Tom's voice was extremely low, yet clearly reached the sheriff's ears, giving him no time to think. "You...were too impatient!"

boom!

A heavy, muffled thud!

Tom, along with his chair, fell heavily backward to the ground without any warning!

Almost simultaneously, the office door was violently kicked open!

The bailiffs who rushed in only saw Tom lying on the ground, and the sheriff standing there, pale-faced and holding a gun.

"Sheriff! If you have something to say, say it before the judge! Don't do anything stupid!" the bailiff captain warned sternly, his officers behind him raising their guns in unison.

The atmosphere in the cramped office froze instantly, the cold muzzles of guns facing each other in the air, and the killing intent was about to erupt!