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"Of course," Caleb said. Then, as if an afterthought, he pulled Milton's key from his pocket. "While I wait, might I access my safety deposit box? Save us all some time."
The manager's eyes flicked to the key, then to Caleb's face. The key was simple, unmarked, but the manager knew the layout of his own vault. Box 147 was in the upper left quadrant. It had been rented by a Pinkerton agent named Milton.
The manager had heard, through the grapevine that thrived in Saint Denis's financial heart, that Milton was dead, likely at Bronte's hand. And now Bronte's top man stood here with the key and a draft for ninety thousand dollars.
The calculation in the manager's eyes was swift and mercenary, "this is a transfer of assets. A settling of accounts. Do not ask any unnecessary questions."
"Box 147," Caleb said, confirming the unspoken thought. "It's on the upper left right."
The manager stiffened slightly, then nodded. "Yes. I… of course. The box is there, sir." He pointed. "I will attend to your cash." He hurried toward the inner steel door, leaving Caleb with the two silent guards.
Caleb walked to the wall of boxes, found the 147 box, and inserted the key. It turned smoothly. The small, heavy door swung open. Inside was not money, but a stacked pile of folders, ledger books, and sealed envelopes. Milton's treasure trove of documents containing evidences and informations of Bronte's operations.
Caleb didn't rifle through it here. He simply opened his satchel, which he had brought in with him, and began transferring the contents. As he did so, he used the satchel as a screen, his hands deftly moving the documents not just into the bag, but directly into his inventory system.
Paper after paper, folder after folder, vanished from the physical world and into his secure, extradimensional storage. Within sixty seconds, the deposit box was empty. He closed it, locked it, and pocketed the key.
The manager returned, flanked by a junior clerk wheeling a locked metal cart. On it were several thick bundles of large denomination bills, neatly stacked and banded, and a sturdy, polished leather suitcase.
"Ninety thousand dollars, sir," the manager announced, his voice echoing slightly in the vault. "We have taken the liberty of providing a secured case. The combination is set to zero zero zero. I would recommend you change it at your earliest convenience."
"Thank you," Caleb said. He opened the suitcase. It was lined with velvet and had leather straps to hold the money securely. He made a show of checking the bands and counts, his Business skill allowing him to verify the amount with a glance. He then closed the case, spun the combination wheels, and hefted it. It was satisfyingly heavy.
"Will there be anything else, Mr. McLaughlin?" the manager asked, eager to conclude this transaction with a potentially volatile client.
"That will be all. You've been most efficient." Caleb gave a curt nod and turned, the suitcase in one hand, his satchel now deceptively light over his shoulder, and walked out of the vault, followed by the guards.
Back in the main hall, the ordinary customers pretended not to stare as the man from the dawn's stories walked out with a locked case that clearly contained a fortune. Caleb didn't look at anyone. He moved with purpose, exiting the bank and stepping into the morning sun.
Morgan whinnied softly as he approached. He secured the suitcase to his saddle with a set of leather ties he kept for such purposes, ensuring it was snug and wouldn't shift.
The evidence against Bronte's operations and his personal actions was now safely stored in a space only he could access. The documents he'd taken would need to be reviewed, cross referenced, and leveraged carefully.
Ninety thousand dollars in cash was physically attached to his horse, for now as after he leaves town he will store it inside his inventory. And he had the combination to the main bank vault tucked in his memory.
He mounted up, feeling the new weight behind the saddle. Saint Denis had given him a fortune, a trove of secrets, a senator's marker, and a target on his back. It was more than enough. It was time to go.
He turned Morgan's head west, away from the bank, away from Bronte's mansion, away from the smoke stained memory of the docks. He rode for the city western entrance, not with the haste of a fugitive, but with the deliberate pace of a man departing on his own terms.
Caleb passed beneath the western arch of Saint Denis without ceremony, the city's stone giving way to dirt road and open sky. There was no chase, no shouted orders, no sudden turn of fate, just the steady rhythm of Morgan's hooves and the feeling of a chapter closing behind him.
He didn't look back.
The road west stretched wide and familiar, the main artery that carried goods, gossip, and the occasional doomed dreamer toward the heart of Lemoyne and beyond. Caleb followed it at an even pace, posture relaxed but senses wide open. Saint Denis was behind him now, but its consequences were not.
They rode past the outskirts, through the manicured lands near Caliga Hall. The great plantation loomed in the distance, white columns standing like silent judges over fields worked by invisible hands. Caleb spared it only a glance. Power came in many disguises. Some wore suits and spoke of industry. Others wore tradition and rot beneath polish.
Northward, the road narrowed as it cut into the Bayou. Cypress trees rose like ancient sentinels, moss hanging from their limbs, the air thick with damp and life. The smell of stagnant water mixed with wild growth filled his nose. Somewhere in the distance, something croaked, then went silent.
It was here, beneath the green gloom and filtered light, that Caleb reached back and unfastened the leather ties securing the suitcase to Morgan's saddle. "All right," he murmured. "Let's make this easier on you."
With practiced ease, he opened the case just enough to trigger the transfer. The 90,000 dollars, heavily stacked and banded, vanished and slipped into his inventory. The weight lifted instantly, Morgan flicking her ears and letting out an appreciative huff.
"Thought you'd like that," Caleb said, patting her neck.
She swished her tail, clearly agreeing.
They pressed on, leaving the Bayou behind as the land gradually dried, the road firm beneath Morgan's hooves. By midmorning they crossed the Kamassa River via a sturdy wooden bridge, the water glinting beneath them as fishermen glanced up, squinting against the sun.
West again, through Scarlett Meadows, the land opened wide, rolling fields, scattered trees, the smell of grass and horse sweat carried on the breeze. Caleb let himself relax just a fraction.
Then he head northwest from there and the sun climbed higher, Valentine came into view.
By noon, the town welcomed him through its southern entrance, the auction yards alive with noise and movement, cattle lowing, men shouting bids, the sharp scent of manure thick in the air. The train station bustled nearby, steam hissing as a locomotive idled, passengers stepping down with luggage and expectations.
Caleb guided Morgan through it all, nodding to a few familiar townsfolk. He followed the southern main road past the stable and blacksmith, the familiar clanging of metal ringing out, and finally reined in before the hotel.
He dismounted smoothly and hitched Morgan to the post, giving her a final affectionate pat.
"You earned your rest too," he said.
Morgan snorted softly, lowering her head.
Inside, the hotel clerk looked up from his ledger and broke into a genuine smile. "Mr. Thorne! Welcome back. Everything all right?"
"Everything's fine, Henry. Good to be back." Caleb's smile was real this time. He took the stairs two at a time, the plain wood and simple wallpaper a relief after Bronte's gilded oppression.
He pushed open the door to his room. Mary-Beth was at the small writing desk, her back to him, pen moving steadily across a page. The soft scratch stopped at the sound of the door. She turned.
For a heartbeat, she just stared, as if verifying he wasn't a mirage. Then her face lit up with a radiance that made the dim room seem bright. A huge, breathless smile broke across her features, and she was on her feet, crossing the room in a rush of skirts to throw her arms around him.
Caleb caught her, his own arms wrapping around her tightly, burying his face in her hair. She smelled of soap and paper and home.
"You're back," she breathed into his chest, her voice muffled. "It's been five days, Caleb. You said three. You made me worry."
He held her tighter, his voice a low rumble. "I'm sorry. I am. Things… got complicated. But it was worth it. Good money. And some doors opened that might be useful later."
She leaned back, her hands coming up to cup his face, her eyes searching his. She saw the new sharpness in his gaze, the residual hardness around his mouth, but also the relief at being here, with her.
"You look like you haven't slept," she chided softly, her thumb brushing his cheek. "You must have worked very hard."
"Harder than swinging a hammer," he admitted, and then he leaned down and kissed her.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was a claiming, a reaffirmation, a desperate communication of all the tension and danger he'd endured and the safe harbor he'd returned to. She met it with equal fervor, her fingers tangling in his hair. It lasted a long, breathless time before they finally broke apart, both gasping for air.
Mary-Beth, flushed and smiling, gave him a light slap on the arm. "You're going to suffocate me one of these days, Caleb Thorne."
He chuckled, the sound rich and genuine. "Promises, promises." He rested his forehead against hers, just breathing her in for a moment.
When their hearts had slowed, she said, "Strauss has been waiting for you. He said the documents from the Marlin Firearms Company in New Haven arrived. He's got them stored somewhere safe until you could look."
Caleb's smile widened into a grin of pure triumph. This was the tangible proof, the foundation stone. "That's great. Where is he now?"
"Should be at the restaurant, I'd reckon. Probably doing the books or fretting over the ice cream supply." Her expression turned more serious. "Are you going to head to Strawberry right away? You said you and Strauss would go after you got back."
his head, stretching his shoulders. "Tomorrow. Today, I rest. Today, I sleep in a bed that doesn't feel like it's on a powder keg." He kissed her forehead. "I'll go see Strauss now."
Mary-Beth smiled. "Good. Go on, then."
"Yes, ma'am," Caleb said with mock formality, earning a laugh as he turned and left the room.
He descended the stairs and stepped out into the bustling main street of Valentine. The normalcy was almost shocking.
A line had formed at the counter window of his restaurant, where Jasper was efficiently taking orders for burgers, fries, and cold drinks. The smell of frying beef and fresh coffee filled the air. A few townsfolk in line spotted him and called out cheerful greetings.
"Caleb! Back from your trip?"
"Decided to grace us with your presence again, eh?"
"You gonna start flipping burgers again today?"
He chuckled, raising a hand in greeting. "Just got back. Let a man settle in first!" The facade held. To them, he was just Caleb, the poker king, the bounty hunter, and sometimes restaurant worker.
The idea that he owned this thriving business, let alone held a controlling stake in a firearms empire and had just brought back large sum of money from Saint Denis, was beyond their imagination. He liked it that way.
He pushed through the 'Employees Only' door and into the bustling warmth of the restaurant. Jessie was at the food counter, pick up some of the food places there which was ready to be served. She gave him a nod. "Boss."
He nodded back, a silent communication of acknowledgment, and moved past her into the resting area. There, in his usual chair by the window, sat Simon Strauss. He was hunched over his ledger, his spectacles perched on his nose, a cup of tea gone cold beside him.
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 2)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 2)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 4)
- Bow (Lvl 3)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 4)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 3)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl 3)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 1)
- Leadership (Lvl 1)
Money: 3,465 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 282,892 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, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, & 1 Senator Pendleton Sealed Envelope
Bank: -