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...
Caleb dismounted in front of the establishment, looping Morgan's reins onto the hitching post. He patted her neck gently. "Stay here, girl. I won't be long." She snorted, content. Caleb ascended the few steps to the front door, pushed it open and was met with a wall of sound.
The Bastille was even more crowded tonight compared to the one in the morning. Patrons in flamboyant suits or glittering dresses clustered around the tables, clinking glasses and laughing too loudly. Elegant working girls drifted gracefully between wealthy clients. The piano played in the corner, while the scent of tobacco and expensive perfume mingled into something strangely inviting.
Laughter echoed in warm waves. And the scent of seared meat, fresh bread, and warm bisque filled the air.
Caleb walked in like he belonged there. Like McLaughlin always belonged.
He passed a pair of lawyers arguing over politics, a railroad magnate boasting about profits, and a handful of drunken students attempting to flirt with a patient red haired hostess.
When he reached the bar counter, Ezra looked up from polishing glasses. The older man's eyes widened with recognition.
"Well, look at that," Ezra drawled warmly. "Evenin', Mr. McLaughlin. What'll you have tonight?"
"You could say that," Caleb replied, tipping his hat lightly.
"What'll it be? Food? Drink?"
"Both," Caleb answered without hesitation. "Lobster bisque, prime rib steak… and a bottle of beer."
Ezra whistled. "Eating good tonight, aren't we?"
Caleb opened his satchel, pulled out 11 dollars, and set the bills neatly on the counter.
Ezra's brows rose at the sight, most men never paid without haggling or complaint.
"Well, money talks, and you just bought yourself priority." Ezra scooped up the bills with a grin. "Beer first. Food in a few minutes."
He ducked under the counter, came back with a cold bottle, popped it open, and handed it over.
Caleb took a long drink.
Crisp. Softly bitter. Refreshing after a long night.
He set the bottle down and scanned the room again.
But the Bastille was packed. Not a single empty table. Every booth filled. Every chair occupied. Even the corners were claimed by clusters of men discussing business or crime or both. The Bastille thrived under lantern light.
Caleb accepted it with a sigh. Standing would do. So he simply remained at the counter, arms resting comfortably, drinking slowly as he enjoyed the warm hum of the room.
Then—
Footsteps beside him.
Caleb's instincts sharpened.
A well dressed man in a neatly fitted charcoal suit stepped to his side. Polished shoes. Clean shave. Controlled posture. Not wealthy. Not a patron.
He carried himself with confidence but not arrogance, like a man used to observing, not commanding the spotlight.
Professional.
He stepped beside Caleb, casually claiming the space next to him.
"Evening," he said in a calm, polite tone.
Caleb nodded lazily in acknowledgment, taking another sip.
The man studied him briefly before speaking again.
"Excuse me," the man said calmly. "Are you the bounty hunter they call McLaughlin?"
Caleb lowered his beer, turned his head slightly, and regarded the stranger with quiet, measured curiosity.
"Yes," he said smoothly. "That would be me. And you are…?"
The man smiled faintly, as though confirming a suspicion.
"My name is Connor," he said smoothly. "Pinkertons Detective Agency. Perhaps you have heard of us?"
Inside, Caleb's heart gave a single sharp beat — not of fear, but of calculation.
They had approached him.
He had been preparing to seek them out… but instead they came to him.
Unexpected.
Potentially useful.
But dangerous.
Very dangerous.
He activated his Acting Skill.
Then turned on his Persuasion Skill as well.
His posture shifted subtly open, but not naive, cautious, but not defensive, curious, but not intimidated. A man with nothing to hide… and many options at his disposal. He then let out a low, unimpressed breath.
"I've heard of the Pinkertons," he said with mild humor. "Hard not to, with how your name gets around. What's your business with me? Looking to investigate me for something?"
Connor chuckled, shaking his head lightly. "No, no, nothing like that, Mr. McLaughlin. On the contrary, your reputation as a reliable bounty hunter precedes you. And we just like to understand the… movers and shakers of a city. We simply want to ask a few questions."
Caleb leaned one elbow against the bar, taking a slow drink of his beer to mask how intensely he was analyzing every angle. "And what sort of questions would those be?"
Connor clasped his hands behind his back, lowering his voice just slightly.
"You see… we're looking into a certain gang. Vicious. Notorious. Responsible for… quite the disaster several months back. One you must have heard of by now."
Caleb raised an eyebrow. "And who would that be?"
"The Van der Linde Gang," Connor replied simply. "They were responsible for the Blackwater Massacre. A brutal, chaotic incident, the details of which I'm sure you've heard. Our information indicates they fled west for a time, then circled back east. Recently, we've tracked their trail into the region of Lemoyne."
Caleb raised an eyebrow, exactly as a surprised, intrigued, yet uninvolved bounty hunter might.
"That so?"
"Yes," Connor said, voice calm but colored with intent. "And a bounty hunter of your skill must have heard rumors. Movements. Sightings."
Caleb took another sip of his beer, letting the bottle hide the flicker in his eyes as he began weaving a response that would confuse, redirect, and slow their progress, without making them suspicious.
His mind moved quickly.
Act like someone who hears rumors, but not all of them. Act like someone who knows the streets, but not the wilderness. And most importantly, never contradict known facts. Only muddy the waters around the unknown.
Caleb lowered the bottle.
"I've heard mentions," he said thoughtfully. "Rumors mostly. Some folks muttering about outlaws drifting through the swamps. Others blaming faceless bandits for robberies they probably caused themselves."
Connor's expression sharpened with interest.
"But nothing… concrete?" he pressed gently.
Caleb shrugged casually.
"You know how it is in this city. Thousands of faces, thousands of stories, half of them lies. Some folks swear they saw outlaws in the Bayou. Others claim they saw them on the docks, though I'm fairly sure those sightings were drunks seeing shadows."
Connor tapped one finger against his arm, thoughtful.
Caleb leaned a little closer, lowering his voice as if sharing something he shouldn't.
"And between you and me," he said in a quiet tone, "people are scared. The Blackwater story has grown into a legend. Anyone with a beard and a bad attitude gets called 'Van der Linde' these days."
A slight smirk touched Connor's lips.
Caleb continued, letting Persuasion work subtly:
"Now, if they were here… I imagine they'd keep to the outskirts. Swamps. Rivers. Forests. Saint Denis is too crowded. Too many eyes. Too much law presence. They've lost people before. They won't risk a city like this."
Connor nodded slowly.
Caleb pressed lightly.
"Though…" He paused, as if thinking. "I have heard some of the dock workers complain about strangers paying them off to keep quiet. Could be anyone. Could be nothin'. But it might be a thread."
Connor's eyes gleamed.
"That," he said quietly, "is useful."
Good, Caleb thought. A false trail that leads nowhere. A time sink.
Connor adjusted his coat slightly.
"Mr. McLaughlin," he said, "I appreciate your honesty. More than you know. The Pinkertons pay well for information, and we value… cooperative individuals."
Caleb smiled faintly, just enough to be polite.
"Happy to help where I can. As long as I'm not dragged into anything messy."
"Oh, nothing messy," Connor assured. "We prefer to keep things civilized."
'Lie,' Caleb thought.
Connor reached into his coat and retrieved a small card, offering it.
"If you hear anything more… do send word."
Caleb accepted the card with a nod.
"I'll keep my ears open."
"Good man."
Connor tipped his hat and stepped away smoothly, disappearing into the dense crowd of the Bastille.
Caleb let out a quiet breath through his nose once he was gone. He looked down at the card in his hand, Connor's name, neatly printed, along with a Pinkerton office location in the city.
Caleb tucked it into his coat, picked up his bottle again, and took another drink. That was too close. Too sudden. But the encounter had a silver lining.
The Pinkertons didn't suspect him.
Not yet.
And the more he spoke with them, carefully, strategically, the better he could steer them away from the gang.
Ezra returned from the kitchen carrying a tray.
"Lobster bisque and prime rib steak for the man of the hour," he said proudly.
Caleb chuckled softly. "Thanks, Ezra."
He set the tray on the counter. Caleb ate standing up, savoring each bite. Rich broth, perfectly seasoned. Tender steak. The kind of meal McLaughlin would absolutely order after reminding two outlaw groups in a single day.
As he ate, he scanned the Bastille from the corner of his eye.
Wealthy patrons mingled. Girls laughed. Drinks flowed.
It was a perfect place to observe people… or to be observed.
The Pinkertons were clearly tightening their web in Saint Denis.
But so was he.
When Caleb finished his food and downed the last of his beer, he wiped his mouth with the napkin, exhaling through his nose as the warmth of the bisque and steak settled in his stomach. He took one last look around the Bastille's bustling interior before giving Ezra a nod.
"Goodnight, Ezra," he said with quiet cordiality.
Ezra returned the gesture with an easy grin, wiping down the counter. "Sleep easy, Mr. McLaughlin. You know where to find me come morning."
Caleb tipped his hat lightly and headed toward the stairs at the back, weaving past the few lingering patrons still enjoying their meals or last drinks of the night. The lanterns flickered softly overhead as he climbed the steps, each creak of the old wood familiar and comforting.
At the second floor, he reached his room, slipped inside, and locked the door behind him.
The sudden silence felt like a balm.
He began his nightly ritual.
First, he removed his hat, laying it gently on the nightstand. Then his gun belt, heavy, reliable, worn from long travel, which he placed on the small table just beside the bed.
His boots came off next, thudding softly onto the wooden floor. After that he unbuttoned his dusty travel worn shirt and changed into his Saint Denis outfit, crisp vest, clean shirt, neatly pressed trousers. Polished, refined. Exactly what McLaughlin would wear in the city.
When he crawled into bed, sinking into the comfort of clean blankets and soft pillows, sleep overtook him almost immediately.
Morning came fast.
Caleb was dragged from sleep not by sunlight, but by noise.
A commotion downstairs, loud, angry voices, curses flying like thrown knives. Heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. Chairs scraping. Something slamming. More shouting.
Caleb blinked awake, frowning.
"Who the hell," he muttered under his breath, "dares cause trouble in the Bastille?"
In a city like Saint Denis, some establishments were protected by law, others by gangs. But the Bastille? That was Bronte's territory. A sacred ground. A place no one with sense would disturb.
So whoever was making that ruckus… either had a death wish or was too stupid to understand whose boot they were about to find on their throat.
Caleb swung his legs out of bed, sitting up. He buckled on his gun belt with practiced speed, slid his boots back on, and set his hat on his head. His expression hardened in the mirror, calm, cold, perfectly controlled McLaughlin. He reached for his Litchfield Repeater from beside the nightstand, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the door. The shouting only grew louder as he walked down the hallway.
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 7/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 7/10
- Luck: 8/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 4)
- Rifle (Lvl 4)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 4)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 4)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 4)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 4)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 3)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 2)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 4)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 4)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl 4)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
Money: 3,787 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 112,142 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 65 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, 1 Ruby, 1 Braithwaites Land Deed, & 1 Broken Pirate Sword
Bank: -