If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
...
For a long while, he just listened, watching this fractured family begin to mend itself. He saw Karen laughing with Sean, saw Jack being doted on by Abigail and John, who were sitting more and more closer together. He saw Arthur, off to the side, sharing a quiet word with Hosea, a faint, genuine smile on his weary face.
The peace was profound, but it was fragile.
A raw, guttural shout tore through it from the direction of Dutch's tent. It was a torrent of incoherent, rage filled syllables, crazed lunatic words about paradise and betrayal and worms eating at the plan.
The festive chatter died instantly. All eyes turned to the tent, where Kieran and Lenny, standing guard, exchanged a worried glance before ducking inside.
A tense minute passed before the shouting ceased abruptly. A moment later, the two young men emerged.
Kieran looked pale, wringing his hands. "He… he worked the gag loose," he stammered. "I tied it tight, I swear I did! He just… he thrashed until he got it. We fixed it. He's secured."
The festive mood curdled, sinking into a somber, guilty silence. The ghost at the feast had made himself heard. The shadow of the man who had built this family now threatened to poison its future.
Caleb set his bowl down deliberately and stood up. The movement drew every eye. He didn't shout. He spoke clearly, his voice carrying the full, calibrated weight of his max-level Persuasion Skill.
"Listen to me," he said, his gaze sweeping the circle. "That… that is the sound of a sickness. A sickness that almost consumed us all. We have a home now. We have a future. Milton is gator food, and the law has lost our scent."
He let his words hang, seeing the doubt in their faces. "We have spent too long letting Dutch Van der Linde's demons become our own. He has shown, in word and deed, that he cares more for the ghost of his plan than for the living, breathing people in this camp. So I say we stop giving his ghosts power over us. Tonight, we celebrate our survival. Our new beginning. Not his tragedy."
The skill worked, weaving his words into their anxieties and hopes. The slump in shoulders straightened. The downcast eyes lifted. The spell of Dutch's madness was broken, not by force, but by a stronger, more appealing truth. A murmur of agreement rippled through them. Slowly, tentatively, conversations resumed. The music of the night, though quieter, began again.
Caleb caught Arthur's eye, then Hosea's. He gave a slight tilt of his head toward the camp's entrance. Both men understood. They finished their meals and, after a moment, rose and followed him as he slipped away from the firelight.
At the edge of the trees, where the shadows were long and the noise of the camp was a gentle hum, Caleb stopped. He pulled out his cigarette case, the metal glinting in the starlight. He lit one for himself, the flare of the match illuminating his calm, composed features for an instant.
"Smoke?" he offered, holding the case open.
Hosea took one with a grateful nod. Arthur hesitated for a fraction of a second, then did the same. Three small embers glowed in the gathering dark. The shared, familiar ritual eased the tension of the clandestine meeting.
After a long, thoughtful puff, Hosea broke the silence. "Alright, Caleb. We're here. What's on your mind that couldn't be said by the fire?"
Caleb exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it dissipate into the night. "We need to talk about Dutch." His tone was low, measured. "What he's become."
Arthur's jaw tightened. "We know what he's become. A ravin' madman tied to a log. A liability."
"A danger," Hosea added quietly, his voice thick with sorrow. "To himself, and to every single one of us."
"I know you know," Caleb said, his Acting Skill layering perfect, empathetic sincerity over his words. He let the weight of the statement settle. Then, carefully, he proceeded. "Knowing it and deciding what to do about it are two different things. We've taken his gun and his freedom. But we haven't addressed the core problem."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "What're you sayin', Caleb?"
Caleb met his gaze unflinchingly, the Persuasion and Acting skill now working in tandem with his performance, softening the brutal edges of his proposal, framing it as painful necessity rather than cold calculation.
"I'm saying that as long as he draws breath, he is a threat. He could break free at the wrong moment. He could scream his accusations to a passing stranger. He is a live grenade in the middle of our new home. We've talked about locking him in a room. But is a locked room enough for a man with his will? Or are we just… prolonging his suffering? And ours?"
The implication hung in the air, heavier than the tobacco smoke.
Hosea froze, the cigarette halfway to his lips. Arthur stiffened as if struck. The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the distant croak of frogs from the lake.
This was the unthinkable frontier. Disobeying and putting Dutch away was one thing. Contemplating his end was a chasm of betrayal that even they had hesitated to peer into.
Hosea was the first to recover, his old conman's instincts recognizing a performance even as he was swayed by its logic. He saw not malice in Caleb's eyes, but a terrible, weary resolve. "You're talking about a mercy," Hosea breathed, the word tasting like ash.
"I'm talking about securing the future of twenty people," Caleb corrected gently. "The future you just cheered for. That homestead isn't a sanctuary if we bring the plague inside with us. We have a chance for a clean start. A quiet life. Can we have that with him… like that… in the cellar?"
Arthur finally found his voice, hot with a conflicted anger that was, as Caleb had predicted, tempered by the skills subtly influencing him. It was a calm heat, a reasoned fire. "He's… he's Dutch, goddammit. He took us in. He's family."
"Was family, Arthur," Hosea said, the sadness in his voice monumental. "The man we knew is gone. What's left is a vessel of rage and madness. Caleb's not wrong about the threat." He looked at Caleb, his eyes ancient and tired. "But what you're suggesting… it's not something done lightly. It's not something we can do."
The dynamic played out exactly as Caleb had foreseen. Hosea, the thinker, acknowledging the brutal logic. Arthur, the conflicted son, revolted by the act but cornered by the truth.
"I ain't becomin' his executioner," Arthur stated flatly, his moral line drawn.
"And I wouldn't ask you to," Caleb said, his tone conveying deep respect for that boundary. "But we must agree on the reality. He cannot come with us to that house as he is. A locked room is a temporary solution for a permanent problem. We need to decide, for the future safety of this gang, what his end looks like. A quiet end in his sleep, a tragic accident during the move… or a raging, violent breakout that gets Molly or Jack or someone else killed when he tries to flee."
He let the grim alternatives sink in. He wasn't demanding a decision now, he was planting the seed, framing the conversation in terms of inevitable, managed tragedy versus catastrophic, random violence.
Hosea sighed, a sound of utter exhaustion. "You have a devil's way with words, Caleb. You paint a hell and ask us to choose which circle we prefer."
"I'm painting the reality we already live in, Hosea. I'm just holding up the lamp so we can see it clearly."
Arthur took a last, long drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt into the dirt, grinding it out with his heel. "I can't… I can't be a part of plannin' that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But…" He looked toward Dutch's tent, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "I won't stop someone else from seein' to what's necessary. For the sake of everyone else."
It was not a blessing. It was a profound and painful abdication of responsibility. It was the space Caleb needed.
Hosea placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder, a gesture of shared burden. "We'll keep him secure on the journey. We'll get him into that room. And then… then we will have to decide. As those who are free of his influence. As those who understood that the real Dutch wouldn't like what he have become now."
Caleb nodded, respecting the compromise. The seed was planted. It would grow in the dark of their consciences. "That's all I ask. That we don't let sentiment for the man he was doom the people he left behind."
The three men stood in silence for a while longer, the weight of the unspoken decision settling among them. From the camp, the sound of laughter floated again, a fragile, beautiful thing. They were protecting that sound.
"We should get back," Hosea said finally. "Big day tomorrow. A new home."
As they turned to walk back to the fire, the embers of their cigarettes dead, Caleb knew the gang's physical safety was secured.
Now, he had to guide them through the moral quagmire of their founder's end, and ensure that when the time came, the act would be seen not as a murder, but as the closing of a painful, necessary chapter, the final act of mercy that would truly set them free.
After that, the celebrating continued for a short while longer,bbut it was the soft, winding down kind of joy now, the sort that comes when relief finally outweighs adrenaline.
Laughter returned, though it was more subdued, tempered by the stark reminder of what lay in the tent. Soon, the exhaustion of the day's labor and the emotional whiplash of the evening began to take its toll.
Yawns replaced songs. One by one, the gang members drifted to their bedrolls, speaking in hushed, excited tones about the morning's departure.
Caleb took his time, ensuring the central fire was safely banked. He then retrieved his bedroll from where he'd stored it on Morgan, the familiar scent of leather, horse, and old canvas a small comfort.
He scouted for a spot near the scout's campfire, which still glowed with a bed of warm coals. It offered residual warmth against the night chill and, being slightly elevated and clear of thick brush, less chance of unwelcome crawlers sharing his space.
He was just laying out the bedroll when he heard soft footsteps. Mary-Beth approached, her own bedroll clutched to her chest. In the moonlight, she looked young and uncertain.
"Mind some company, Caleb?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "I… I don't fancy being alone tonight. Not after… everything."
Caleb smiled, a genuine, warm expression. "I'd be glad for it," he said, and meant it. He took her bedroll, and with practiced efficiency, arranged them side by side, overlapping the edges to create one larger, shared space.
They settled in, the hard ground beneath them forgotten as Caleb wrapped a protective arm around her, drawing her back against his chest. She sighed, a sound of deep contentment and relief, and her body relaxed into his.
There, under the vast, star dusted sky of Roanoke Valley, with the gentle snores and rustles of their makeshift family around them, they found a profound peace. No words were needed, the shared warmth and steady heartbeat were language enough.
Dawn came softly, painting the sky in hues of peach and lavender. Caleb woke first, the instinctive alertness of a man used to dangerous places.
He lay still for a moment, feeling the gentle rhythm of Mary-Beth's breathing, watching the light begin to define the skeletal remains of the camp.
He could see others already stirring, Sadie was checking the wagons' hitches, Charles was silently grooming Taima, and Miss Grimshaw was moving with her usual purposeful stride, a kettle already in hand.
He gently extricated himself, and the movement woke Mary-Beth. She blinked up at him, smiled sleepily, and then, seeing the activity, sprang into action with a newfound energy. "Right! No time for lollygagging!" she said, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before bustling off to join Tilly and Karen in packing the last of the ladies' personal effects.
...
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: 3,415 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 250,392 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, & Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co.
Bank: -