If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
...
Ezra nodded once. Caleb reached into his pocket and placed 11 dollars on the counter. No haggling. No hesitation. Ezra took the money, slid it into the register, and reached beneath the bar for a bottle.
He popped the cap with a practiced flick and set it down in front of Caleb.
"Food'll be a moment," Ezra said.
"That's fine."
Caleb wrapped his fingers around the bottle, the cold glass grounding him as he took a slow drink. Around him, the Bastille moved on as it always did, travelers murmuring, chairs scraping, footsteps passing. No one spared him a second glance.
That was how he liked it.
The steak arrived shortly after, cooked well, seasoned simply. Caleb ate in silence, mind already moving several steps ahead, mapping routes, contingencies, probabilities.
Saint Denis was closing in on itself.
Exactly as planned.
He stayed in the city for two more days.
Two days of listening. Of watching. Of letting information come to him instead of chasing it.
On the second night, the two thieves found him again.
They slipped into his room just after midnight, eyes darting, hands shaking. Both reeked of fear and stale alcohol, but their information was solid.
"The Pinkertons," one of them whispered, voice cracking. "They're holdin' up north now. Up by the warehouses near the rail yards."
"Them and Bronte's men…" the other swallowed hard. "They been shootin' at each other at night. Real shootin'. Bodies."
Caleb nodded, already fitting the pieces together.
So Milton hadn't left after all. He'd pulled back, regrouped, and dug in where he thought Bronte's influence was weaker. A mistake. Or desperation. Possibly both.
"You did good," Caleb said calmly.
The thieves flinched at his tone, then relaxed slightly as he reached into his pocket and placed fifty dollars on the table. 25 dollars each.
Their eyes went wide.
"Thank you, sir," one of them breathed.
"As promised," Caleb said. "And the antidote."
He handed each of them a bottle of beer that he filled with water, identical to the last.
"Drink it on the twenty first day after the last one," he instructed evenly. "Not earlier. Not later."
They nodded frantically.
"We won't forget," one said, tears welling up. "We swear."
"Good," Caleb replied. "Now go."
They didn't need to be told twice.
They slipped out, gratitude and terror propelling them into the night.
Caleb closed the door behind them and stood still for a moment, listening to the city breathe.
The Pinkertons and Bronte were at open war now, even if the newspapers didn't dare print it that way. Blood was being spilled in alleys and warehouses, deals being broken, lines being redrawn.
And Caleb was no longer needed here.
The next morning, he made his way to Bronte's mansion on the west side of Saint Denis.
The estate loomed like a fortress, stone and iron wrapped in luxury. Guards recognized him immediately and ushered him inside without delay.
Bronte received him in a sunlit room overlooking the gardens, cane resting against his chair, a glass of wine in hand.
"Signore McLaughlin," Bronte greeted pleasantly. "To what do I owe this visit?"
Caleb inclined his head respectfully. "I came to inform you that I intend to leave town for a while."
Bronte's eyes sharpened, just a fraction.
"Oh?"
"Yes," Caleb continued smoothly. "Given recent events, it would be prudent for me to remain unseen for a time. The Pinkertons are angry, desperate. And as you said yourself, men like Milton will escalate this."
Bronte watched him carefully.
"I have become… noticeable even though still hidden," Caleb added. "And while I am honored to serve as your secret weapon, the attention of such an organization is not ideal as it's matter of time they could track this to me."
Bronte considered this, then nodded slowly.
"Hmm. Yes. That makes sense," he said at last. "You have done enough here. Let my men handle what remains."
Caleb allowed himself a faint smile. "I will return when needed."
"Good," Bronte said. "Go somewhere quiet. Somewhere forgettable."
Caleb bowed his head slightly. "As you wish."
There were no further questions. No suspicion. No tests.
Exactly as planned.
Caleb left the mansion without looking back.
Within the hour, he was mounted on Morgan, guiding the horse through the outskirts of Saint Denis and onto the northern road. The city fell away behind him, brick and smoke giving way to trees and open land.
The ride to Roanoke Valley would take more than half a day.
He welcomed the distance.
The road north was quieter, the air cooler. As the miles passed beneath Morgan's hooves, Caleb's thoughts returned, inevitably, to the gang.
To Dutch.
Saint Denis had been a battlefield, but the real war was waiting back at camp.
Dutch would be pacing by now. Suspicious. Paranoid. Angry.
He would feel the shift even if he couldn't name it. The way people spoke to him differently. The way eyes lingered on Caleb, on Arthur, on Hosea. The way his words no longer carried unquestioned weight.
Men like Dutch sensed their fall long before it happened.
They just never accepted it.
Caleb reached Roanoke Valley as dusk began to bleed into the sky, the forest dense and watchful around him. He didn't head straight for camp. Not yet.
Instead, he circled wide, dismounted near a stream, and let Morgan drink while he sat on a fallen log.
The world felt quieter here. More honest.
This was where the next phase would begin.
Dutch had to be dealt with.
Not rashly. Not emotionally. But decisively.
Caleb knew Dutch's mind well enough now to understand the danger. The man felt cornered. Betrayed. Surrounded by doubt. Those were the conditions under which he would lash out hardest.
He would test loyalties. Force confrontations. Push people into choosing sides.
Caleb intended to be ready.
He mounted Morgan once more and rode toward camp under cover of twilight.
The firelight came into view before he heard voices. Familiar shapes moved within the circle of trees. Arthur sitting near the fire, sharpening his knife. Hosea leaning against a crate, speaking quietly with Charles. Sadie cleaning her rifle nearby, posture tense but focused.
Dutch stood apart.
Always apart, now.
Caleb dismounted and tied Morgan off into the hitching post before stepping into the firelight.
Arthur looked up first.
"There you are," he said. Not accusation. But relief and fact.
"Had some scouting to do and get some pretty good money as well," Caleb replied.
Dutch's eyes snapped to him immediately.
"Scouting," Dutch repeated, tone sharp. "Funny how you always do scouting outside of camp for so long."
Caleb met his gaze evenly. "Funny how it keeps us alive."
The tension crackled, thick and electric.
Hosea cleared his throat. "Let's all calm down."
"No," Dutch snapped. "I'm tired of calming down."
Caleb didn't rise to it. He sat near the fire, hands open, posture relaxed.
"This is exactly what I'm talking about," Dutch continued, pacing. "Whispers. Secrets. Plans I ain't part of."
Caleb listened to Dutch's words without moving, without flinching, letting the man pace and burn himself hotter with every step.
Then he spoke.
"There ain't no whispers, Dutch," Caleb said evenly. "No secrets. No hidden plans."
Dutch stopped pacing, eyes snapping toward him.
"All this scouting?" Caleb continued, voice calm but sharpened like a blade drawn slow. "It's been to make sure the Pinkertons stay off our backs. Because they're on us now. Harder than ever. And you know why."
Dutch scoffed. "Oh, here we go—"
"You blew up the Braithwaites' land," Caleb cut in. "With dynamite. You didn't just rob them, you scorched them. Made it loud. Made it impossible to ignore."
Arthur stiffened. Hosea's jaw tightened.
"And after that," Caleb went on, eyes never leaving Dutch's face, "the Pinkertons set up an ambush on four bank carriages. Every one of us told you it was a trap. Arthur told you. Hosea told you. I told you."
Dutch opened his mouth.
"You went anyway," Caleb said. "And when it went bad, when it got overwhelming, you abandoned Javier. You left him there as you flee with Bill."
A murmur rippled through the camp.
"You didn't want to go back," Caleb said, voice steady, merciless. "You wanted to cut and run. It was me who came back with the others. Me, Arthur, Charles, Sadie, Hosea, and the others. We dragged Javier out alive while you stood there and justified it."
Dutch's face had gone pale beneath the firelight.
"And because of that mess," Caleb finished, "we were forced to move again. Because the Pinkertons were about to swarm all of Lemoyne since you took their bait just like that. That's why I've been scouting. Cleaning up your mess."
Silence fell heavy and absolute.
Dutch stared at him, genuinely flabbergasted.
This wasn't the Caleb he was used to.
Before, Caleb had argued, yes, but always controlled. Respectful. Careful with words. Always giving Dutch an out, a way to save face.
This time, there was no out.
Arthur stared at Caleb, stunned. Hosea looked the same, eyes wide but thoughtful. Sadie had stopped cleaning her rifle altogether. Charles's posture had shifted, subtly, protectively.
No one told Caleb to calm down.
Not even Hosea.
Because Dutch had started it.
Days passed after that confrontation without bloodshed, but the damage was done.
Caleb went out scouting as he always did, slipping in and out of camp like a shadow. During those days, Dutch changed.
He began talking more again. Laughing. Sharing stories by the fire. He even clapped Arthur on the shoulder once, told Hosea he valued his counsel. To an outsider, it might have looked like improvement.
Arthur and Hosea noticed it too.
"He seems… better," Arthur murmured one night.
"Surface level," Hosea replied quietly. "Like paint over rot."
Their trust didn't return. Their faith didn't either.
Dutch, meanwhile, simmered.
When Caleb returned from his latest scouting run, Dutch was waiting.
He stood by the fire, arms crossed, eyes burning with something darker than anger.
"So you mean all of it," Dutch said slowly. "All of this… all this misfortune… you're sayin' it's my fault."
Caleb didn't hesitate.
"Yes," he said firmly. "It is."
The word landed like a gunshot.
Before he even joined the gang, Caleb continued, "I heard the stories. Blackwater. The massacre. How Arthur and Hosea told you not to go through with it. How you ignored them."
Dutch's nostrils flared.
"And instead," Caleb said, "you listened to Micah Bell. A man I'm very glad I never met."
That drew a sharp reaction.
"Micah died in that jail in Strawberry," Caleb went on. "And even then, you went out of your way to make a mess retrieving his body, saying you'd do it peaceful-like. You never do anything peaceful when your pride's involved."
Gasps echoed around the camp.
"So yes," Caleb said, unwavering, "what I said ain't a lie. It's the truth."
Dutch took several steps forward.
In an instant, he grabbed Caleb by the collar and yanked him close, spit flying as he shouted.
"How dare you," Dutch snarled. "Who do you think you are, questioning me like that?"
Caleb didn't struggle. Didn't blink.
"All of this," Dutch continued, voice cracking with rage, "it's bad luck! Lady Luck turning her back on us! That's all it is!"
Caleb ignored the spit hitting his cheek.
"It ain't Lady Luck, Dutch," he said coldly. "It's you."
Dutch froze.
"You're just like every other outlaw," Caleb continued. "Just like Colm O'Driscoll. The only difference is, you hid it better when things went your way."
Dutch's face twisted.
"At Blackwater," Caleb said, "things stopped going your way. And everything went downhill from there. Including your mind."
Dutch raised his hand to strike.
Arthur moved first.
He grabbed Dutch's arm, voice sharp. "Enough!"
Hosea joined him, gripping Dutch's other arm. "Let him go, Dutch!"
Sadie and Charles stepped in immediately, positioning themselves beside Caleb. Charles placed a steady hand on Caleb's shoulder, not to restrain him, but to steady him. Sadie's eyes never left Dutch, daring him to try something.
...
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: 3,726 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 112,892 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: -