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Half a mile in he spotted a collapsed shack against a tangle of roots, some sort of a hunter's cabin, roof sagging, a smoke blackened cooking pot nearby. This fit the officer's description, a hideout used by men who thought themselves clever. Caleb skirted the perimeter, eyes on the openings.
The cabin had a back crawlspace blocked by rotten planks and the stench of old fires. He crouched behind a palmetto and listened. Muffled voices from inside and the sting of cigarettes, alongside several man's breathy laughter.
He approached the weather beaten door and pressed his ear against it. There's two voices currently arguing softly, a gravelly voice, alongside a younger, more nervous tone answering. He weighed his options. Storming in would get blood, perhaps even death, but he'd promised, alive if they gave him the choice. Alive meant strategy, not fireworks.
He braced the Litchfield's lever, notched one round in case the plan went sour, and slipped a sticky pad of cloth over the doorknob to keep it quiet. The hinges protested a whisper when he cracked it, and the world inside moved a fraction slower as he scanned the poor lighting.
One long table, a pile of cots, and in the dim corner a man with a beard like a swamp root nursing a pistol. That must have been one of Mick's boys. And near the stove, Mick Doran himself, thin, sharp eyed, wearing the same cove of arrogance men keep when they've cheated fate once too often.
Then Caleb continue to look around, to which he saw more guys standing ground inside the shack, where there was three more guys with one in the other corner of the room, and the two other guys were in other places.
From their motion and the arguing voices earlier, they should be the ones arguing, and since he had opened the door, the whispered hinge sound wasn't heard by all of them inside due to how loud the argument had become. The two arguing men continued to bicker about whatever nonsense they were caught up in, which from what Caleb heard had something to do with booze and cigarettes.
Caleb considered how to approach this matter, when suddenly Doran, clearly fed up with the noise, slammed his empty beer bottle into the far wall. The bottle burst into glittering shards that clinked across the floorboards, and this immediately silenced everyone inside, even the two men mid argument froze.
Doran then stood up from his seat near the stove, his voice, rough, hoarse, and furious, cut through the silence like a whip. "Enough! You two sound like a pair of damn old hens! You wanna scream at each other, do it outside! I don't wanna see your stupid faces till nightfall!"
The two men stopped cold, exchanging a glare before muttering curses under their breath. One spat on the floor, but both obeyed. Boots scraped against the warped floorboards as they trudged toward the front.
Caleb's pulse slowed; timing was everything.
He melted back into the dark, slipping around the side of the shack, boots sinking an inch into the swampy soil. He crouched behind a tree, hearing the creak of the door as it opened.The two men stepped out, still grumbling, shoving each other's shoulders as they resumed their argument, this time in lower, irritated tones. They turned the other direction, away from him, continuing their argument as they walked toward the treeline.
Knowing this was his best chance to thin the herd, Caleb drew his Civil War knife and activated his Sneak Skill. His movements slowed and quieted to nothing more than the rustle of swamp grass as he crouch walked toward the two.
With one final breath, he triggered Dead Eye. Time dilated, his senses sharpened to razor precision. He saw the faint light of their cigarettes, the pulse beating in their necks, the gap between one word and the next and moved.
In that amber tinted world of slowed time, Caleb drove his knife into the first man's ribs, his other hand clamping down on the mouth to stifle the scream. The second man began to turn, eyes wide, but Caleb was already there, three swift thrusts, heart and lung, hand over mouth until the muffled cry faded to nothing. The world snapped back to normal speed with a whisper of wind.
He exhaled through his nose, looking down at the two corpses. One of them had managed to graze Caleb's hand with his knife during the struggle, but the pain barely registered, dampened by his Pain Nullifier Skill.
Even so, Caleb frowned slightly, angry at his own moment of carelessness. He knelt, checking their pockets. One had 3 dollars and 50 cents, the other, 2 dollars and 31 cents. Caleb took the money, muttering, "Thanks for the contribution," before putting the money into his satchel, and trjen wiped the blade clean on one man's sleeve.
Standing again, he unslung his Litchfield Repeater and considered his next move. He could rush in now, cut the rest of them down before Doran had time to think or he could bait them, make them come out. As he weighed the options, that choice was made for him when the door suddenly banged open again. Caleb darted behind a nearby tree, crouching low.
Voices echoed. Someone had found the bodies.
"What the hell?! Jim?! Dale?!" one man shouted, his words laced with panic. "Boss! They're dead! Jim and Dale, they're dead out here!"
The silence that followed was tense, sharp as a blade as then came Doran's voice, sharper, commanding. "What?! Damn it all, get your guns ready! Someone's lurkin' out there! I want him dead!"
The two remaining goons scrambled to obey, cocking their weapons. Caleb exhaled through his nose and whispered to himself, "So much for quiet."
He peeked out from the tree and spotted them both in the open, rifles in hand, eyes scanning the swamp. Perfect targets.
Caleb stepped out, raised his repeater, and squeezed the trigger twice. Two thunderous cracks tore through the humid air. Both shots hit true, one man folded immediately, chest blown open and the other spun, clutching his gut and crumpled beside his fallen partner.
Before Doran could react, Caleb was already back behind the tree, scanning the shack. The surviving outlaw's cries echoed briefly before fading, swallowed by the swamp.
Inside, Doran cursed loudly, his boots pounding across the creaky floor. ""Coward! Come out and face me, you son of a bitch! You know who you're messin' with?!" he shouted toward the open door, the sound of his shotgun being racked clear in the night.
Caleb smirked, checked his rifle's chamber, and called back. "Name's McLaughlin. I'm here under the authority of Saint Denis Police and the State of Lemoyne. Mick Doran, you're wanted for attempted train robbery and murder of a Pinkerton agent. You got one chance to drop that gun and come quietly."
For a moment there was only silence, save for the croak of frogs and the hiss of wind through reeds. Then Doran's laugh broke it, sharp, mocking, and edged with defiance.
"You think you can just walk in here, bounty boy?" Doran spat. "You'll end up like the rest of 'em, dead and rottin' in the mud!"
Caleb's expression hardened. "Suit yourself."
Doran fired first. The shotgun blast tore through the doorway, splintering wood where Caleb's head had been a second earlier. He rolled aside, leveraging the Litchfield and firing once through the doorway in response. The slug clipped the edge of Doran's shoulder, spinning him back with a grunt.
"Damn you!" Doran snarled, backing toward the stove, fumbling to reload.
Caleb didn't wait. He sprinted low across the swamp grass, boots silent against the soft mud, and kicked the half open door wide. The interior erupted with noise, the stove crackling, the floor creaking, the low groan of the wounded outlaw dying in the corner.
Doran raised the shotgun again, but Caleb fired first, one shot that shattered the weapon's stock and sent Doran's hands jerking backward with a cry.
The outlaw dropped to his knees, clutching his bloodied hand, glaring up at Caleb. "Bastard… you don't know what you're—"
Caleb cut him off, swinging the repeater like a club, catching Doran in the jaw. The man slumped, groaning. Caleb holstered the repeater, drew his rope, and bound Doran's hands and feet in practiced motions.
"You're lucky I made a promise," Caleb muttered, cinching the knot. "Alive, if you gave me the choice."
Doran glared at him, breathing hard, blood running down his fingers. "You… you ain't law," he spat.
"No," Caleb replied coolly. "But I am justice."
He hauled the outlaw to his feet, dragging him outside toward the horse. The swamp light had dimmed to a murky twilight, mist crawling between the cypress knees. Frogs croaked and insects buzzed like whispers of ghosts. Caleb secured Doran to Morgan's rear, looping the rope through the saddle with a tug.
With Doran securely, if uncomfortably, tied across Morgan's back, he went back to the bodies of the two men he'd shot, methodically checking their pockets. One carried 4 dollars, the other 3 dollars flat. Caleb pocketed both sums, tucking them into his satchel before turning his eyes toward the shack again.
Unlike Weller who was a simple thug, Doran's operation was no backwater fluke, the man had been running robberies and heists all through the state, even if he failed at that train job which left a Pinkerton dead. If there was a stash to find, it'd be here.
He stepped inside the shack, the old floorboards creaking beneath his boots. The air reeked of sweat, liquor, and stale tobacco. On the table near the center, a deck of cards was scattered beside a small pile of cash, like a game interrupted.
There were whiskey bottles too, some empty, some still half full. Caleb counted through the stack of bills, 47 dollars in total. Not bad for a night's card table winnings. He slid them into his satchel with the others.
Then he began to search deeper. He turned over old bedrolls, tore aside a curtain that covered part of the wall, and even checked behind the cracked mirror that hung near the stove. Nothing. Frowning, he crouched and looked under the cots, more empty bottles, a few torn boots, and a rat that scurried off when his shadow crossed it. Caleb stood again, scanning the room slowly, feeling like he was missing something.
He closed his eyes briefly and activated his Eagle Eye Skill. The world bled into shades of dim gold and silver, every clue, every trail lighting up before him. And there, a faint amber glow beneath the stove. The boards were highlighted, faint but unmistakable. "Jackpot," Caleb muttered under his breath.
He grabbed the edge of the stove, straining to shove it aside until the iron legs scraped free of their resting place. Beneath, the floorboard was marked with fresh scratches, a sign of frequent use. Caleb drew his knife and pried it loose. Beneath the plank sat a small, iron lockbox, unassuming but heavy. He hauled it out and set it on the table.
The box was sealed by a rusted padlock. Caleb took one look at it, then hefted the back of his Litchfield Repeater and brought it down hard. The impact shattered the lock with a dull crack. The lid creaked open.
Inside was a neat stack of dollar bills and a small leather pouch. Caleb whistled low. He lifted the pouch and untied the string, four gleaming gold nuggets rolled into his palm, each one catching the lamplight in warm reflection.
He smiled faintly, pocketing the gold into his System Inventory, then turned his attention to the cash. After a careful count, his eyebrows rose. 223 dollars.
"Well, Doran, you might've been a bastard," he murmured, "but you sure knew how to save." Caleb packed the bills away into his inventory. A strange sense of calm settled over him as he looked around the room one last time, a place that had been alive with noise and arrogance only minutes ago now reduced to silence and corpses.
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 7/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 6/10
- Luck: 8/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 4)
- Rifle (Lvl 4)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 4)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 3)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 3)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 3)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 2)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 1)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 3)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 4)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Germanic Language Proficiency (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl 3)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
Money: 2,306 dollars and 75 cents
Inventory: 104,069 dollars and 72 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 58 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, & 1 Lancaster Repeater
Bank: -