Henry had been keeping an eye out for any sign of Dutch, Arthur, or the Van der Linde gang, or at least characters like them. So far, he'd found nothing.
Perhaps it was too early—the events of Red Dead Redemption 2 didn't kick off until 1899, nineteen years from now. Or perhaps Frisco was just too isolated. Or maybe, in this world, they simply didn't exist.
For now, he wasn't overly concerned. If he kept moving forward, he was bound to run into whomever he was meant to meet. If he ever did find them, he might even consider saving some of the more honorable members, like Hosea, Arthur, Charles, or Sadie. Even a den of thieves could have a few good souls worth saving.
He refocused his wandering thoughts on the mission at hand. The original Henry had never been to Dwyer Manor or the McKinley mines. He was going in blind.
An old saying from his past life echoed in his mind: Know yourself, know your enemy, and you will win a hundred battles. It was time for some reconnaissance.
After lunch, Henry returned to the Sheriff's office. He found that most of the new deputies now looked at him with a mixture of awe and admiration. Thor and Hank had clearly been telling their stories. A five-thousand-dollar bounty on a man like Billy the Kid was, after all, the stuff of legends.
Thanks to him, the reputation of the Frisco Sheriff's Department was growing by the day.
He spent the afternoon in his office, inspecting and oiling the guns he planned to use.
Around 4 PM, he climbed into a carriage driven by Thor and headed out of town. They traveled about four miles down the main road, to the turnoff that led to Dwyer Manor.
"Stop here," Henry said.
He stepped down from the carriage. "Go back, and don't tell anyone where you took me."
Thor opened his mouth as if to protest, but seeing the look on Henry's face, he simply nodded, turned the carriage around, and headed back to town.
The private road to Dwyer Manor was a narrow path, wide enough for two horses, that wound its way up the mountain. The manor itself was situated on the mountainside.
Henry checked his gear. Leather pants, a long-sleeved canvas shirt, a black vest, a wide-brimmed hat, and high-topped boots. He was well-protected from insects and thorns. And if he was bitten by something venomous, he had his Release Pearls to cleanse his system.
He stepped into the forest of fir and spruce, keeping the road about twenty meters to his side as he began his ascent. He used the assassin's elegant walking stick to push aside branches and brush.
After a while, his keen hearing picked up the sound of voices ahead, followed by the sudden, sharp barking of a dog.
He immediately veered deeper into the woods.
On the road, the three manor guards who had been chatting fell silent, their hands tightening on their rifles. The woods were home to black bears, grey wolves, and cougars.
"Who's there?" one of the guards called out.
After a moment, the German Shepherd stopped barking. The three men relaxed. The beast, whatever it was, must have moved on. They were the first line of security for the manor; anyone approaching on horseback would have been stopped here.
Henry ignored them and continued his silent advance through the forest, gradually moving back toward the road to keep his bearings.
Another dozen minutes passed, and he saw it through the trees: the main gate of Dwyer Manor. It was a massive, ten-meter-wide, double-iron gate, intricately designed with the silhouettes of cowboys on horseback. At sunset, the shadows these figures cast would look hauntingly real.
The estate was surrounded by a three-meter-high Irish dry-stone wall. It was an ancient technique, using carefully placed stones without any mortar. The longer such a wall stood, the more it settled and merged with the landscape, becoming stronger and more natural over time.
He was still four or five hundred meters from the main house.
He pulled on a pair of gloves, selected a massive fir tree over a meter in diameter, and began to climb.
At a height of thirty meters, he had a clear, unobstructed view of the entire estate. The file had said the property was sixty acres, and it looked about right. It was an irregular rectangle, with gardens, lawns, vegetable patches, orchards, stables, and barns. At the center of it all stood a grey-brown, Gothic-style Irish manor house.
The architecture was unique. In Irish tradition, there was a concept called Anglo-Saxon numerology, which dictated that a building's proportions must adhere to the golden ratio: 1.618 to 1. Following this rule was said to create a more aesthetically pleasing and harmonious structure.
It's a nice place, Zhang Tianyuan, the architect, thought. I might just take it for myself.
He had a pair of 4x40 Galileo binoculars in his storage space, looted from Oliver, but his own eyesight was so powerful he didn't need them.
He began to survey the manor's defenses.
There were two four-story stone watchtowers at the front corners of the estate, each manned by five guards and mounting two Gatling guns.
Four more guards stood at the main gate.
On the grounds below, another forty or so guards were scattered about. Some were at target practice, others were smoking and talking.
Most importantly, he spotted five German Shepherds. They were large, powerful animals.
Luckily, he was downwind. They hadn't caught his scent.
Henry settled into his perch on the high branch, watching silently as he began to formulate his plan of attack.