your innocence while you can. It will be torn from your eyes before you leave this room."
Another twinge of fear twisted Wash's gut, but he stood his ground. "Tear whatever you want to as long as I get what I want from this deal."
"As you wish," Boots said, the smile never leaving his face. "If you would kindly open the lid of the coffin, I will begin."
"What's that?" Washed asked, casting a worried look at the box. "You want me to open it?"
"Yes."
"Why can't you?"
"Because you must master your fear of the unknown if you are to learn what I have to teach you," the bartender replied. "The choice is yours. However, I should warn you: if you turn back now, I will kill you before you reach the door."
Wash swallowed. His instincts were screaming at him to run, to leave this unsettling man and his coffin in the dust and get out of Leadville as fast as he could. If he shot Boots quick enough, he could do just that. He could steal one of the horses still hitched to the wagon downstairs and light out before the law could catch up to him.
His finger drifted toward the trigger as his thoughts raced. Boots watched him, still grinning. The bartender seemed to know his thoughts and was challenging him, waiting to see what he would do. Shooting him would be easy enough, but something told Wash that getting shot would only amuse the bartender. The muffled sound of the piano filtered up through the floorboards as the two men stared at each other.
Finally, Wash slipped his revolver back into its holster. He gave Boots a long look before kneeling down next to the coffin, wondering for the second time that day what he'd gotten himself into.
The coffin's hinges groaned as Wash opened it. He expected them to be stiff and hard to move, but the lid gave way easily, letting the dim light trickle into the coffin's interior.
What he saw made him jump to his feet and take a few steps backward, his hand over his mouth. He bumped into a crate and almost fell, but he didn't take his eyes off the coffin. His stomach threatened to heave his breakfast onto the floor.
Reclining in the coffin, eyes closed as if in sleep, was a man.
As Wash regained control of himself, he approached the coffin for a better look. The man appeared young, no older than thirty years. A black, well-trimmed beard circled his red lips, perfectly matching the fine suit he wore and the raven locks that lay on his shoulders. Clean white gloves covered his hands as they rested at his side. The only bit of color about him aside from his lips came from a bloodred necktie at his throat.
What struck Wash the most, however, was the man's face. Despite having been in that coffin for who knew how long, the man hadn't started rotting. Indeed, the face was rather handsome. It wasn't the face of a dead man, but Wash couldn't imagine anyone enduring the ride from the mines and the trip up the stairs trapped in a coffin. He looked up at Boots with questions in his eyes, but the bartender only stared back at him. Neither man spoke, and Wash suddenly realized that his breathing was the only sound in the room.
"Rather dashing, wouldn't you say?" Boots said, stepping up to the coffin and looking down at the man. "I always think so, but it doesn't mean much coming from me."
Wash's mouth worked in silence for a few moments. "What is this?" he managed.
"This is your future," Boots said, eyes glinting in amusement. "This is what will empower you to kill Cora Oglesby."
Wash shook his head, not understanding but frightened half out of his wits. Boots favored him with a look fitting for a lame dog. "How often I forget the fear mortality strikes into the heart. Very well, Washington Jones, I will explain. I do hope you won't mind if I do so in my own voice, though. After a good sleep, I enjoy nothing so much as a long talk."
Before Wash could react, Boots faded into the shadows, leaving the gunman alone in the room. Startled, Wash turned in a slow circle, hoping to see the bartender hiding behind a crate or standing by the window, grinning his grin, but the room was empty.
A moment later, he heard a soft rustling behind him. Turning his head, he saw white gloves gripping