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...
He stepped back out into the cooling evening air, the glow of sunset painting the river docks gold and crimson. Morgan whinnied softly as he approached. Caleb secured Weller over the horse's back, double checking the rope. "Easy there, girl," he murmured, patting her neck before swinging into the saddle.
The streets of Saint Denis were quieter now as he rode back toward the police station. Gas lamps flickered to life one by one, their light reflecting in the puddles along the cobbled road. Weller muttered incoherently behind him, either from pain or the fading haze of alcohol.
When Caleb arrived, the same officer from before looked up in disbelief as the bounty hunter dragged the outlaw through the door.
"Jesus, you actually did it mister," the officer said, mouth agape. "And this fast?"
Caleb goes past the reception desk, to the cell room where he dropped Weller onto a open holding cell bed with a heavy thud. "One down," he said simply. "Elias Weller, wanted for robbery and assault. Alive, as promised."
The officer who followed him from behind quickly moved to lock the cell, still glancing between Caleb and his prisoner. "You're somethin' else, Mr. McLaughlin. Didn't think anyone could drag this drunk bastard in without half a gunfight across the docks."
Caleb tipped his hat. "Just lucky, I guess."
"Lucky or not," the officer replied with a chuckle, "the chief'll wanna know your name after this. Payment'll be ready in the mornin' tomorrow. You can collect it then."
"Much obliged," Caleb said before turning to leave.
As he stepped back into the night, a faint breeze carried the scent of the sea and the hum of distant music from the Théâtre Râleur across the street. He adjusted his hat, glancing northward, toward the direction of Bayou Nwa. His next hunt waited out there, in the dark wetlands.
Mick Doran.
The name flickered in his mind like a spark. Caleb knew the terrain, treacherous, crawling with predators, both animal and human. The man was dangerous, but he wasn't untouchable.
He led Morgan to the hitching post, untied her, and mounted up once more. "C'mon, girl," he said softly. "Let's finish today with some rest."
As he rode through the dim streets head back to the Bastille, Caleb's mind flickered back to what Weller had said. "You ain't human." The words lingered faintly. Maybe he was right, in a way. Between his system abilities and the knowledge of two lifetimes, Caleb was becoming something beyond what this world could define.
With that in his mind, Caleb finally arrived at the front of the Bastille. After giving Morgan an apple and several pats, he hitched her to the post and gave her a fond scratch along her jaw. "Rest easy, girl. You've earned it."
He then stepped through the Bastille's double doors, greeted immediately by the soft hum of piano music, murmured conversation, and the clinking of glasses. The air was perfumed with cigar smoke and expensive cologne. The patrons—mostly Saint Denis' wealthy elite—were gathered in their usual corners, some nursing brandy while others leaned over their poker tables, laughing with the casual arrogance of men too rich to care about losing money.
The moment Caleb entered, one of the regulars noticed him. "McLaughlin! There's our man of the hour! Come, join us for a game!"
A ripple of acknowledgment went around the room. The wealthy patrons who'd lost to Caleb before half-smiled, half-grimaced, clearly eager for revenge. Caleb chuckled and tipped his hat. "Appreciate the invite, gentlemen, but let me change first and grab a bite. Been a long day."
A few laughed and nodded, but one of them, a tall, gray-haired man with a gold-tipped cane, waved dismissively. "Your meal's on me tonight, Mr. McLaughlin. You just sit, play, and tell us how you made out hunting those criminals of yours, words have traveled there's a new bounty hunter in town. We don't take kindly to rude refusals."
The others chimed in, all agreeing. Caleb was surprised by that but also couldn't help a grin. "Well, who in their right mind says no to free food? You got yourselves a deal."
Laughter followed him as he went upstairs. In his room, Caleb removed his dusty coat, hung it on the hangers on the wall, and then he laid his weapons neatly on the foot of the bed, his Litchfield Repeater and Lancaster Repeater gleaming in the lamplight.
He changed into a clean Saint Denis outfit, a fine vest, tailored shirt, and dark trousers that gave him a sharp, gentlemanly look, though the calluses on his hands betrayed the truth of his trade.
After a brief wash and a deep breath, he left his room and headed back down to the main floor.
The poker table was already waiting, five men seated, an empty chair at the end. A waiter had set down a plate of prime rib beside a full glass of whiskey.
Caleb nodded his thanks to the man who'd paid for it. "Much obliged."
He sat, placed his 5 dollar buy in on the table, and stacked his chips with the quiet precision of someone who'd done this many times before. When he activated his Poker Skill, subtle sparks of insight flickered in his mind. Every twitch of an eyebrow, every nervous glance or tapping finger around the table became data, part of a rhythm he could read as easily as a familiar melody.
The first few hands went smoothly. Caleb didn't dominate outright, he let himself lose small, keeping his play modest while observing his opponents. The patrons laughed and sipped brandy, relaxed. They thought he was lucky last night, maybe even tired now. But Caleb was building momentum, letting them be impulsive and also getting to know more of their habits.
As the night went on, more working girls and patrons gathered around to watch. The soft piano music faded under the hum of excitement. "He's playin' again tonight," someone whispered. "Maybe we'll see another big win."
By the middle games, Caleb had begun his ascent. His expressions remained calm, occasionally even self deprecating when he folded. Then, when the pot grew large and the air tense, he struck, reading bluffs like open books, calling at the perfect moment. His winnings began to pile up, the crowd murmuring in appreciation.
When the final round came, the other five players were visibly anxious. Caleb lifted his whiskey, took a sip, and said casually, "Gentlemen, seems we've made it to the end. Let's make it interesting, shall we?"
"All in," one of them said with a forced grin. The rest followed suit, desperate to reclaim their losses.
Caleb matched the pot, cards dealt and hands played with cinematic tension. He took another bite of prime rib, slow and deliberate, while the final card hit the table. A royal flush. Gasps filled the room. The dealer's hand froze mid motion before confirming Caleb's victory.
The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and disbelief. Caleb leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath, the faintest smile curving his lips. The men across from him stared, some in dismay, some in reluctant admiration.
"Well, boys," he said, counting his chips, "I'd call that a good game."
When he was done, his total winnings came to 623 dollars and 23 cents. The dealer verified it twice before handing Caleb his payout in crisp bills and coins. The sound of whistling and applause filled the Bastille as Caleb tucked the cash into his satchel.
The wealthy patrons congratulated him through tight smiles, saving face before retreating to refill their glasses. Pride wouldn't allow open bitterness, but their eyes said plenty. The working girls, meanwhile, giggled and whispered, some drifting closer to test their luck with the night's big winner.
Caleb deflected them politely, offering charming smiles but keeping his distance. His mind already running the numbers for what Mary-Beth would like.
Once the excitement died down, he stood, stretched, and said, "Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure. But I've had a long day, and tomorrow's bound to be longer."
With that, he left the table. The crowd parted respectfully as he climbed the stairs back to his room. Despite the lingering offers and teasing calls from a few of the girls, Caleb simply tipped his hat and disappeared into the hallway.
Inside his room, he locked the door, laid his satchel on the table, and placed his revolvers within easy reach. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, looking out the window toward the gaslit streets of Saint Denis. The city glowed like embers in the night, its beauty hiding the rot underneath.
He exhaled, boots heavy with exhaustion, then leaned back and let the day fade into sleep.
The next morning, sunlight slipped through the curtains. Caleb stirred, sat up, and stretched. His body ached pleasantly from the night's ride and the steady tension of poker, but his mind was clear.
He changed into his Vaquero outfit, rugged, practical, and fit for the wilderness. After strapping on his gun belt, he retrieved his Lancaster Repeater from the bed, storing it neatly into his system inventory with a thought. His Litchfield Repeater and Pump Action Shotgun hung securely across his torso.
He gave the room one last look, making sure nothing was left behind, then stepped into the hall.
Downstairs, Ezra was behind the counter today, polishing glasses. "Mornin', Mr. McLaughlin," he greeted. "Heard you cleaned the table again last night."
Caleb grinned. "Rumors travel fast in this town."
"That they do," Ezra said with a laugh. "Where are you going to today?"
"Nort, to the Bayou Nwa," Caleb confirmed. "Got a man named Mick Doran waitin' out there for me."
Ezra winced. "That one's bad news. You watch yourself. That place don't like the unprepared."
Caleb tipped his hat. "Always do."
He stepped outside into the crisp morning air. Morgan was right where he'd left her, stamping her hooves and flicking her tail in impatience. Caleb fed her another apple before mounting up.
"Alright, girl," he said softly. "Let's ride."
They trotted through the cobblestone streets, the early light glinting off the rooftops. The world changed as he rode. Pavement gave way to rutted track, the smell of coal and bread shifted into damp earth and cypress musk. Morning's light sat on the water like a skin.
The map function in front of him, alongside the Past Life Memory Skill working like a quiet radar, painted every turn, every landmark. He followed the signs toward where the hunter shacks should be, narrow paths, half mended causeways, and the occasional ruined lightpost used as a marker by those who knew the roads.
Bayou Nwa wasn't a place that hummed with life. It breathed slow and patient, waiting for fools to hurry into it. The trails stood for the cautious, a wrong step could drop a boot into black water, and alligators were patient, and men were often hungrier.
Caleb rode slow. He watched for disturbed reeds and footprints, the small things that betrayed human presence in a landscape built to hide men from the polite eyes of cities.
When he reached the approximate area the officer had described, he dismounted and walked Morgan past, tightening the cinch and leading her to a low pine. He moved light, his boots sinking softly into the loam.
The swamp tracks had a different language, drag marks where an assailant had hauled a sack, the shallow impressions of rubber soled shoes, the break of a twig in a pattern that suggested haste.
He let his Eagle Eye flicker awake, letting the white lines show him a ledger of recent movement, and followed the faint trails that led away from the main path.
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.
...
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: 2,246 dollars and 94 cents
Inventory: 103,846 dollars and 72 cents, 7 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: -