Odin had known the club since childhood.

He knew the stories.

He knew the old photographs.

And he knew the patch.

The instant he saw Cyrus's back, he stopped.

His eyes widened.

He turned toward Trent.

"Take your hand off him."

Trent frowned.

"I already did."

"Good."

Odin looked at the patch.

Then at Cyrus.

Then back at Trent.

"Do you know who that is?"

Trent shook his head.

"No."

"Read the vest."

Trent looked.

He read:

BLACK HILLS.

DEADWOOD.

Then he saw:

1969.

His expression changed.

Odin stepped closer.

"That man founded the Black Hills Bison Motorcycle Club."

Trent stared.

"The motorcycle club?"

"Yes."

"What's the big deal?"

Odin's expression hardened.

"The big deal is that there are over three hundred patched members across four states who owe their brotherhood to the man you just put your hands on."

Trent looked back at Cyrus.

For the first time, he saw something different.

Not an old man.

Not a torn vest.

A legacy.

Cyrus remained seated.

He hadn't said a word.

Odin walked toward him.

"Sir."

Cyrus looked up.

"My father was Nicolo Ivar."

Cyrus's eyes softened.

"I remember him."

Odin smiled.

"He talked about you."

"He was a good rider."

"He always said you were the reason the club existed."

Cyrus shook his head.

"Men like your father made the club what it became."

Odin glanced toward the bar.

"Do you want me to make a call?"

Cyrus shook his head.

"No."

"Sir—"

"No club."

"But he put his hands on you."

Cyrus looked at Trent.

"He did."

"Then let me call them."

Cyrus smiled.

"He's twenty-three."

Odin waited.

"He's going to have a long, unpleasant life if we teach him everything the hard way tonight."

Cyrus tapped his cane against the pavement.

"Let him learn one lesson."

Odin nodded.

"What lesson?"

Cyrus looked at the Copper Lantern.

"Respect isn't something you demand."

He paused.

"It's something you understand."

The Owner

Odin eventually made one phone call.

Not to the Bison.

Not yet.

He called the owner of the Copper Lantern.

Bram Sutcliffe.

Bram was forty-two.

He had opened the bar four months earlier.

He had borrowed heavily to do it.

His house was collateral.

His wife and two children depended on the business succeeding.

His phone rang while he was sitting in his tiny office counting receipts.

"Bram."

It was Odin.

"Hey, Odin. What's up?"

"I need you at the front door."

Bram frowned.

"Why?"

"Your bouncer just turned away Cyrus Delaney."

Silence.

Four seconds.

Then:

"Oh no."

Odin continued.

"Cyrus is on the guest list."

"I know."

"His granddaughter's engagement party is inside."

Bram stood.

"Oh, no. No, no, no."

He knew the name.

Everybody in Deadwood knew the name.

He rushed outside.

The first thing he saw was Trent.

The second was Meadow.

The third was the old man sitting quietly on the bench.

Cyrus Delaney.

Founder.

Bram's face went white.

He walked toward him.

"Mr. Delaney?"

Cyrus looked up.

"Bram."

Bram stopped.

"You know me?"

Cyrus smiled.

"I know everybody who opens a business in this town."