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After an hour of playing easily, he finally utilized his Poker Skill to turned the odds slight to him. He started winning. A few modest pots at first, then a larger one that drew some looks. He was careful not to be too flashy, to lose a hand every now and then. He was Jonathan Granger, a lucky drifter, not a card shark.
As the evening wore on and the whiskey flowed, the talk grew looser. A grizzled old timer at the next table, deep in his cups, slurred something to his friend that made Caleb's blood run cold.
"…and they say old Bessie Majors, the caretaker's wife, she saw one of 'em lurkin' around the cemetery that week. A fella with a fancy coat and a mean look. She thought he was mournin', but he was just… standin' there. Staring at one of the older plots. Never saw him again after the shootout. Reckon he was one of 'em…"
Caleb kept his face down, studying his cards, but his mind was racing. A fancy coat. A mean look. Staring at an older plot. It had to be Dutch. It had to be. The confirmation was like a key turning in a lock. The money was there. He was in the right place.
He played for another hour, eventually cashing out with a respectable a hundred dollar profit, to the envy of the other players. He nodded his goodnights to the table and made his way upstairs.
The low murmur of the saloon faded as Caleb closed the door to his room. The lock clicked shut, a satisfying sound of temporary security. He let out a long, slow breath, the adrenaline from the poker table and the old timer's crucial slip of information finally beginning to ebb. He was exhausted, not just from the long ride, but from the mental strain of maintaining his facade.
The room was pretty spacious, decorated, and clean with a queen size bed, a fireplace, and fancy pictures on the wall. He unslung his repeater & rifle, and placed them within easy reach of the bed. He stared out the window into the darkening streets of Blackwater. The town was quiet now, but he could feel its watchful eyes.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would visit the cemetery to search for Dutch's mothers grave. And Jonathan Granger, the drifter from Armadillo, would pay his respects.
He then gows to sat on the edge of the plush queen sized bed, its softness a stark contrast to the hard ground and stiff cots he'd grown accustomed to.
He methodically unbuckled his gun belt, laying the holstered Cattleman revolver on the bedside table within easy reach. He tugged off his boots, letting them drop to the floor with a heavy thud. The weight of the day seemed to fall away with them.
Stretching out on the bed, he sank into the mattress with a groan of pure relief. The hotel bed in Valentine was serviceable, but this… this was luxury. The sheets were clean and crisp, the pillows soft.
He stared up at the ornate ceiling, the fancy pictures on the wall blurred in the dim light. His mind replayed the drunkard's words, '…staring at one of the older plots.' It was all the confirmation he needed. The prize was within reach. But to claim it, he needed to be sharp, rested, and utterly unnoticed.
With that final thought, he closed his eyes, and sleep claimed him almost instantly.
And when he woke, it was to the soft gray light of dawn slipping through the window shutters. Caleb blinked a few times, stretched, and realized with a quiet chuckle that this was probably the comfiest bed he had ever slept in since coming to this world. Compared to the lumpy mattress at Valentine's hotel, this one felt like a king's. "Damn," he muttered to himself, "if luxury had a definition…"
Fueled by purpose, he swung his legs out of bed. The routine was familiar, pulling on his boots, buckling the gun belt around his hips, the weight of the iron a comforting constant. He checked his appearance in the room's small mirror, Jonathan Granger, the weary drifter, looked back at him. It would do.
He left the room, the key heavy in his pocket, and descended the stairs to the saloon's main floor. The morning atmosphere was a world apart from the previous night's revelry. The air smelled of coffee, bacon, and soap.
A handful of patrons, early risers, men starting their shifts, a few looking worse for wear, were scattered at tables. Burt Mackay was already behind the bar, polishing glasses with the same energetic efficiency as the night before.
"Good mornin', Mr. Granger!" Mr. Burt called out, his voice cheerful. "Sleep well? What can I do for you this fine morning? Breakfast? Or something a little stronger to start the day?" He winked.
Caleb offered a tired but amiable smile. "Mornin', Mr. Mackay. Slept like a log, thank you. Just breakfast for me. A peach cobbler and a glass of coffee would be perfect."
"Excellent choice! A breakfast of Peach cobbler and a hot cup of coffee ought to do you right. That'll be six dollars," Burt said.
Caleb didn't flinch. He reached into his satchel, counted out the money, and placed it on the counter, laid them neatly. "That'll do just fine. Appreciate it."
"Comin' right up! Have a seat, I'll bring it over." Mr. Burt said, sweeping the cash away.
Caleb took a seat near the large glass window where the morning light pooled in. He leaned back, watching the town outside slowly come alive with activity. He watched people pass by, a delivery boy with a crate, a well dressed woman on her way to the general store, and a couple of lawmen walked their rounds with hands resting casually but alertly on their holsters. The rhythm of the town was calm, orderly, and watchful.
Within minutes, Mr. Burt arrived with a plate bearing a generous slice of warm peach cobbler and a steaming mug of black coffee. "Here you go, Mr. Granger. Peach cobbler, piping hot. Coffee, strong enough to wake the dead. Enjoy."
"Thank you kindly," Caleb said. He ate slowly, savoring the sweet, spiced peaches and the flaky crust. The coffee was strong and bitter, exactly what he needed. He ate with a deliberate peace, projecting an image of a man with nowhere to be and nothing to hide. Inside, his mind was a coiled spring.
When he finished, he stood and approached the bar again. "Mr. Mackay, that was excellent. Tell me, does the establishment offer a bath service?"
Mr. Burt grinned. "Of course we do! Best hot water bath in West Elizabeth I'll tell you. Fifty cents, and I'll have one prepared for you right away."
Caleb produced the coins. "I'd appreciate that."
"Up the stairs, first door on the right. I'll have the girls bring up the water."
Caleb thanked him and returned to his table to wait. Soon, a young attendant hurried up the stairs with buckets of hot water. After a few minutes, the boy came back down and gave Burt a nod.
"All ready for you, Mr. Granger," Mr. Burt announced.
The bath room was simple but clean, dominated by a large, clawfoot tub filled with steaming water. Caleb stripped off his trail dusted clothes, the scent of sweat and sawdust from Valentine still clinging to them.
He sank into the tub with a hiss of pleasure, the hot water working miracles on his sore muscles. He scrubbed himself clean with a bar of rough soap, washing away the grime of travel and the lingering tension of deception. For ten minutes, he simply lay there, letting the heat seep into his bones, planning his next moves.
Refreshed and feeling more human, he dried off, dressed, and made his way back downstairs. He gave a nod to Mr. Burt. "Much obliged. I'm gonna take a look around town, see about that work."
"Good luck to you, Mr. Granger!" Melr. Burt called after him.
Stepping outside, the morning air was cool and fresh. Stark whinnied softly in greeting from the hitching post. Caleb spent a moment with her, patting her neck and ensuring she had water. "Not long now, girl," he murmured. "One more thing to do."
He mounted up and nudged her into a walk. He didn't need to consult his map, the location of the cemetery was etched into his memory from a hundred hours of gameplay thanks to his Past Life Memory Skill.
He guided Stark through the clean, wide streets, moving from the commercial heart of town toward its outskirts on the southern hill. The buildings grew sparser, the sounds of commerce replaced by the sigh of the wind coming off Flat Iron Lake.
And then he saw it. A pristine white chapel with sturdy stone pillars, standing solemnly on a rise overlooking the town. A wrought iron fence encircled the hallowed ground of the Blackwater cemetery. The setting was peaceful, almost idyllic, a stark contrast to the fortune of violence and greed he believed was buried within.
He dismounted near the gate, looping Stark's reins around a bar of the iron fence. "Stay here, girl. Be quiet now." The mare dipped her head, content to nibble at the sparse grass.
Caleb pushed open the creaking iron gate and stepped inside. The cemetery was quiet, save for the chirping of birds and the distant sound of the lake. Rows of headstones, some old and weathered, others new and starkly white, stood in silent formation.
His heart began to beat a little faster. He moved with a purpose that he hoped looked like respectful curiosity to any distant observer, his eyes scanning the older sections. He walked the rows, reading names and dates, his boots whispering through the dewy grass.
And then he found it.
It wasn't just the name that confirmed it, though that was enough. The tombstone was made of a dark, aged granite, its edges softened by time. The inscription was still clear.
Greta Van der Linde
Loving Mother To Her Son Dutch
1835 – 1881
There was grace in her steps, love in every gesture.
A cold smirk touched Caleb's lips. Hello, mother.
But it was the state of the grave itself that was the true giveaway, the detail that sealed Dutch's fate. The earth covering the plot was different.
While the surrounding graves had a uniform, settled layer of dark soil with a healthy covering of grass, the dirt on Greta Van der Linde's resting place was noticeably looser, a shade lighter, as if it had been turned over and hastily replaced not too long ago. The grass that had managed to grow back was patchy and sparse, struggling to take hold on the disturbed ground.
It was all there. The story told not by words, but by earth and grass. Dutch had indeed desecrated his own mother's grave, using it as a bank vault. A slow smirk pulled at Caleb's lips. "Got you," he whispered.
This was it. Dutch's secret. The fortune buried beneath his mother's resting place. Caleb didn't linger. He made a show of bowing his head for a moment, as if paying his respects to a stranger, while internally, he used his system interface. Caleb marked the location in his system interface, ensuring he wouldn't lose track even in the dark. Tonight, when the town slept, he would return to dig it up.
He turned and walked calmly back toward the gate, his pace measured. As he passed through the iron archway, he cast one last glance back at the headstone. 'Sorry, ma'am,' he thought, not feeling sorry at all. 'You can blame your son for this. He's the one who put temptation in the ground.'
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 7/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 6/10
- Luck: 6/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 4)
- Rifle (Lvl 3)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 3)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 2)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 3)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 2)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 1)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 0)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 2)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 3)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Germanic Language Proficiency (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 5x5x5)
- Acting (Lvl 2)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
Money: 1,990 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 5,407 dollars and 43 cents, 7 gold nuggets, 8 gold bars, 7 silver rings, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 large bags of jewelry, 4 gold rings, 2 silver rings, 4 silver pocket watches, 3 gold buckles, 1 gold pocket compass, 2 platinum pocket watches, 2 Colm's Schofields, and land deed (Parcel)
Bank: -