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"Yeah, if we live through it," a third muttered nervously. "Don't forget who owns this place. Bronte don't like no one touchin' what's his. If he finds out, we'll be swimmin' with the fishes at the docks… or feedin' gators in the swamp."
That drew a round of uneasy chuckles.
Caleb's lips curved into a faint, quiet smile. Too late for that, fellas.
He crouched lower, adjusting his grip on the knife as he peeked from behind the stone. Four men indeed, dirty, rough, and poorly equipped, each holding either a shovel or a pickaxe. They were clustered around a set of ornate graves, prying open the stone coverings. Their lantern cast wild shadows against the crypt walls.
He counted the distance, maybe thirty yards. Too risky for close combat, especially if one shouted. He needed silence. Quiet's what I do best, he reminded himself.
Then it hit him, his bow. He inwardly cursed his own oversight. His bow and a sleeve of arrows were still strapped to Morgan's saddle. He had been so focused on his primary weapons he'd forgotten his most silent option. "Damn fool," he muttered, barely above a whisper. "Should've known better."
Without wasting time, he slipped back the way he came, retracing his steps silently until the gate came back into view. Morgan was still there, patient and calm. He jogged up to her and unstrapped his bow and quiver of arrows. "Should've remembered this the first time," he muttered, shaking his head. "Its either overconfidence getting on me, or just plain stupidity."
He slung the quiver over his shoulder, the weight settling comfortably, and headed back through the gate, closing it softly behind him.
Back inside, the cemetery seemed even more alive now that he was armed for range. He followed his earlier path with precision until the distant flicker of lantern light came back into view. The grave robbers were still at it, oblivious to anything beyond their greedy chatter.
He exhaled slowly, kneeling behind a tomb and studying the terrain. His eyes scanned for elevation, a vantage point. Then he saw it, a grand grave topped by a weeping angel statue, the base tall enough to give him both cover and a clear line of sight.
Perfect.
He crept toward it, every movement calculated. The soft crunch of gravel beneath his boots was masked by a distant church bell tolling the late hour. He climbed the grave quietly, using the statue's pedestal as partial cover. From here, he could see them all clearly, four silhouettes framed by lamplight and mist.
He nocked an arrow, drawing back slowly until the string hummed tight under his fingers. He took a deep breath and activated Dead Eye.
The world slowed to syrup. The color drained out until only muted tones of amber and red remained. His heartbeats echoed in slow, thunderous rhythm. He marked two of them, the ones standing closest together, laughing over a half opened casket.
Thwip. Thwip.
He released.
Two arrows flew as one. The world snapped back into motion. Both shafts struck true, one in the throat, one just below the eye. The men dropped instantly, their shovels clattering on stone.
The other two spun around in shock.
"Jim? Pete? What the hell—?" one shouted, barely managing the words before Caleb's next arrow took him through the chest. The last one ducked behind a headstone, panicking, fumbling to draw his revolver with trembling hands. Caleb already had another arrow nocked, his Dead Eye meter flickering faintly as he steadied his aim through the fog.
The man peeked out for a split second, enough time.
Thwip.
The arrow took him clean through the temple. He collapsed without a sound.
Silence returned to the cemetery. Only the soft hiss of the mist and the faint rustle of leaves in the trees remained.
Caleb waited a moment longer, bow still drawn, scanning the area for any movement. None. He let out a slow breath and lowered his weapon.
He climbed down from his perch and approached the bodies cautiously. The first two lay crumpled near the broken casket, blood dark and glossy on the marble. The others had fallen among the tombstones, eyes wide in shock, mouths frozen mid-word.
He crouched beside one of them, checking for any sign of life, nothing. All four dead. No noise, no mess. Just as Bronte wanted.
"Guess that's four less rats diggin' around where they shouldn't, Bronte won't have to worry about you boys anymore." he murmured.
He wiped a bit of blood from the fletching of one arrow and retrieved what he could. Three shafts still usable. The rest, too buried or broken to bother with.
Standing, he surveyed the scene. Their lantern still burned beside the open grave, casting long shadows against the mist. He kicked one of their shovels aside, then noticed something glinting near the disturbed soil, a small brass key, half buried in the dirt.
He crouched again, picking it up and turning it over between his fingers. It wasn't part of Bronte's request, but it might've belonged to whatever the grave robbers were trying to open. A faint engraving marked the side, F.F. Mausoleum.
"F.F.," he murmured. "What the hell were you boys diggin' for?"
Curiosity tugged at him, but he remembered Bronte's words, "Certain things I would prefer remain unfound." He frowned thoughtfully, then pocketed the key anyway. Never hurt to have options.
He gave the area one last glance. No witnesses. No noise. Mission accomplished.
The silence of the cemetery felt heavy now, punctuated only by the drip of condensation and the faint crackle of the grave robbers' lantern. Caleb's work wasn't quite finished. Leaving four bodies in the open was an invitation for the law and a broken promise to Bronte. He needed to make them disappear.
"Bronte said clean it up," he murmured. "Guess that means more than just leavin' the trash out for the crows."
He scanned the area again, his eyes landing on the tools the grave robbers had left scattered around, shovels, pickaxes, dirt piles, broken lanterns.
Caleb grabbed one of the shovels, feeling the rough, sweat-stained handle beneath his palms. The grave robbers' own handiwork would serve their burial. He began digging near the far edge of the cemetery, along a dirt path between two large crypts where shadows cloaked the ground from the moonlight. The soil here was soft enough, dark and damp. He drove the shovel in again and again, muscle memory and grit carrying him through as the minutes ticked by.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, mixing with dust and mist. The sound of metal biting into earth echoed dully through the still air. When the hole was finally deep enough, six feet, maybe more, he dragged the bodies one by one across the grass, their dead weight leaving faint trails in the dew. He dropped them into the pit without ceremony.
The smell was already starting to rise, blood and damp soil mingling into something sharp and unpleasant. He stepped back, breathing through his nose, surveying his grim work. "Rest easy, boys," he muttered. "You died stupid, but at least no one's gonna dig you up this time."
He grabbed the remaining shovels and pickaxes, tossing them in after the bodies. Then, his eyes flicked to the lanterns, three of them still mostly full of oil, flickering faintly from the earlier fight. An idea came to him, cold and efficient.
Caleb picked up the lanterns and one by one hurled them into the pit. Glass shattered. Oil splashed across the corpses and tools. Then, from his belt, he drew a matchbook. He struck one, the sulfur hiss cutting through the silence. The tiny flame reflected in his eyes, and for a moment, he thought about how simple it was, how easy it was to erase four men from existence.
He flicked the match into the pit.
A burst of orange fire roared up, swallowing the darkness for a heartbeat before settling into a hungry blaze. The oil caught fast, the flames licking across wood, cloth, and flesh. The sound was low and crackling, muffled by the damp air, but enough to make him wince. It wasn't a loud explosion, just a muted whoomph, the kind that burned hot but short.
He didn't wait to watch it finish. Caleb grabbed one shovel from the pile he'd kept aside and began pushing the dirt back into the hole, covering the smoldering pit in layers of earth.
Smoke seeped through as he worked, stinging his eyes, but he didn't stop until the mound was flat enough to blend with the rest of the cemetery ground. From a distance, no one would suspect a thing, just another old patch of Saint Denis earth.
When he was done, he straightened, wiping sweat and grime from his brow. His heartbeat slowed. He glanced once more around the fog draped graves. Everything was silent again, the kind of silence that swallowed evidence, memory, and guilt.
He shouldered his bow, turned, and made his way back toward the gate. The iron creaked faintly as he pushed it open, stepping out into the cool night air beyond the cemetery walls. Morgan waited right where he left her, calm and alert, ears twitching at his approach.
"Good girl," he said softly, patting her neck before mounting up. "Job's done. Time to leave this mess behind."
He flicked the reins, guiding her into a steady trot down the dimly lit street, the cobblestones glistening beneath the lamplight. The city stretched before him like a sleeping beast, elegant, dangerous, and utterly indifferent.
As he rode, the faint sound of voices rose behind him. He turned slightly in the saddle and saw movement back near the cemetery entrnace. Several lanterns bobbed in the dark, a small group of men approaching the gate. He slowed Morgan just enough to get a better look.
Police officers. Five of them. And a nervous looking civilian gesturing wildly toward the cemetery entrance.
"Well, ain't that somethin'," Caleb muttered. "Guess someone heard the ruckus."
He pulled the brim of his hat lower and kept his head down, riding on. Behind him, the policemen stepped inside, guns drawn, while the man who'd called them out remained at the gate, clearly reluctant to enter. Caleb exhaled through his nose, relief loosening his chest. He'd gotten out in time.
"Close one," he murmured to Morgan. "Real close."
He urged her forward again, the hooves clopping softly as he moved deeper into the heart of Saint Denis. The glow of gas lamps returned, brighter now, washing over fine carriages and marble storefronts. The air smelled of perfume, wine, and distant cigar smoke, the stench of wealth and decay intertwined.
Before long, the familiar facade of The Bastille Saloon came into view, that fancy establishment where the rich and the restless gathered to drown their indulgences. Caleb hitched Morgan to a post out front, giving her a light pat before heading inside.
The moment he pushed through the double doors, warmth and chatter flooded over him. Piano music drifted from the corner, and laughter rolled beneath the chandelier's golden glow. Ezra, the bartender, glanced up from behind the counter, instantly recognizing him.
Caleb dropped 50 cents on the polished wood. "Need a hot bath, Ezra. Long night."
Ezra smiled politely, pocketing the coins. "Of course, Mr. McLaughlin. One's just been prepared upstairs. You can head right up."
"Appreciate it," Caleb said, voice tired but steady.
He started toward the stairs, ignoring the sidelong glances and greetings from the room's wealthy patrons and painted women. Some smiled at him, others looked puzzled that he didn't return the courtesy. Normally he might've flashed a grin, maybe exchanged a word or two, but tonight he wasn't in the mood for small talk.
They must've sensed it. The chatter dulled slightly as he passed, replaced by murmured curiosity. "Something happened," they probably whispered. "McLaughlin, he's not usually so cold."
Upstairs, he stepped into the small bath room opposite his rented room. The moment he sank into the steaming water, every muscle in his body began to unclench. He let out a low groan of relief, the warmth seeping deep into his bones, washing away the grime and tension of the night.
He closed his eyes, resting his head back. The faint scent of soap and lavender filled the air, the kind of luxury few outlaws could ever afford. But he wasn't just an outlaw, not anymore. He was a player in a bigger game now, one that required patience, subtlety, and masks.
After cleaning himself thoroughly, he stepped out, dried off, and changed into his Saint Denis outfit, the one that made him look more like a gentleman than a gunslinger. His old Vaquero gear, still dusted from the night's work, he folded neatly and set aside. Within minutes, he was in bed, sinking into the clean sheets. The exhaustion hit him hard.
Between negotiating with Bronte and burying four bodies, the day had drained him to the core. As his eyes closed, his thoughts wandered, about Bronte, about the key marked F.F., about the growing influence he could leverage inside this city. He drifted off with a single thought echoing in his head. "Step by step, climb the ladder, until I'm the one holding all the strings."
...
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: 2,870 dollars and 75 cents
Inventory: 104,369 dollars and 72 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 64 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, & 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key
Bank: -