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Arthur's grin turned into a look of immense relief. "That'd be a damn blessing. Gettin' Dutch behind solid walls we can lock…" He trailed off, his expression darkening. "What about him?" Caleb asked, though he already had a bad feeling.
Arthur's face tightened as he sighed. "He's gettin' worse. Lot worse. He have been actin' up, which is a polite way of puttin' it. Few days back, I was bringin' him his grub. He was all quiet, seemed resigned. Then he just… exploded. Thrashed around like a wild animal, tipped the chair he was tied to, damn near cracked the leg off it tryin' to get loose. Screamin' about betrayal, about his plans. We had to tackle him, re tie him. Now he's bound to a heavy log inside. Can't move it an inch."
He shook his head, a mix of anger and pity in his eyes. "It's a sorry sight. But it's necessary."
A cold knot formed in Caleb's stomach. The image of Dutch Van der Linde, the silve -tongued visionary, reduced to a raving animal tethered to a log, was both horrifying and a stark testament to how far things had fallen. "Christ. Lucky it was you there, Arthur. If it'd been someone softer…"
"I know," Arthur said grimly. "He'd have talked 'em round, or overpowered 'em. He's still strong when the madness takes him. So yeah, gettin' him into a room with a locked door… that's become a priority."
Hosea cut in gently, but firmly. "Which is why the timing of this homestead couldn't be better. We move. Quickly. Get everyone somewhere more secure, somewhere he can't slip away."
Caleb nodded. "I agree. If Dutch gets loose, he'll run straight to the law. Or the Pinkertons. Or anyone who'll listen. He'll talk. He'll sell us out just to prove he still matters. Which is why I believe that we should pack tonight."
Hosea nodded his head at that. "I suspect once everyone hears they finally have a place to call home, they won't need much encouragement."
Arthur snorted. "Yeah. Folks'll be trippin' over themselves."
Hosea then remembers something. "You said there was a second piece of news, Caleb. Let's have it. We need some light to balance this shade."
Caleb took a breath, his demeanor shifting. This news required a different delivery. He allowed a small, satisfied smile to touch his lips. "The second news comes from Saint Denis. I was there on… other business. And word on the street, confirmed through reliable channels, is that Agent Milton of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency is dead."
The silence that followed was absolute. The crackle of the campfire, the rustle of the trees, the distant murmur of conversation, it all seemed to vanish. Hosea and Arthur stared at him, their faces frozen in identical masks of stunned disbelief.
Arthur found his voice first, a hoarse whisper. "Milton? Dead? How?"
"The official story is a gangland killing. The unofficial truth is that Angelo Bronte, the crime boss who runs Saint Denis, took personal offense to Milton's operations. Had him hunted down and fed to the alligators in the bayou." Caleb kept his tone matter of fact, giving no hint of his own central role in the event.
"Ross is already gone. With Milton dead, the spearhead of the Pinkerton pursuit against us has been shattered. The organization is in disarray. They've lost their primary agents, their primary intelligence on our movements. The pressure… it's off. For now, and likely for a good long while."
Hosea swayed on his feet, his hand coming up to clutch at his chest. For a terrifying moment, Caleb thought the old man might have a heart attack.
Then, a sound escaped Hosea's lips, a choked, disbelieving laugh that quickly grew into a full bodied, joyous sound. He threw his head back and laughed, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes.
"Milton! That self righteous, relentless son of a bitch! Gator food!" He gripped Caleb's arms, his old man strength surprising. "Do you understand what this means, Caleb? Do you? It's not just a reprieve. It's a pardon! A chance to finally breathe free!"
Arthur was less demonstrative, but the relief that washed over him was so profound it seemed to physically alter his posture. The perpetual tension in his shoulders, the watchful hunch he carried, eased.
He looked like a man who had just set down a burden he'd been carrying for years. "Bronte, huh?" he muttered, a faint, grim smile on his lips. "Guess even a snake can do a good turn once in its miserable life. This… this changes everything."
The news, spoken in hushed but fervent tones, began to ripple out from their small circle. It passed from person to person, a whisper to Pearson, a nod to Susan Grimshaw, a quiet word to Charles who stood listening nearby.
Each face that received the news underwent a transformation. Fear melted into cautious hope. Exhaustion was edged out by a new, vital energy.
Milton was the bogeyman. The embodiment of the relentless, civilized world that would never stop hunting them down due to what happened at Blackwater. His death wasn't just the death of a man; it was the death of a fate. It meant the possibility of a future that wasn't defined by running.
Hosea, finally composing himself, wiped his eyes. "This… this is a gift, Caleb. A gift I don't know how you came by, and I won't ask. But coupled with the homestead…"
He looked around at the camp, at his people. "It's a new beginning. A real one. Not Dutch's fantasies of a tropical paradise, but a quiet life on a piece of land, with the law lookin' the other way."
He raised his voice, the old orator's skill returning. "Everyone! Listen up! Caleb's brought us two gifts tonight! The first, the house west of Valentine is finished! We have a home! The second, the Pinkerton, Milton, the man who hounded us from Blackwater to here, is dead! The hunt is over!"
A collective gasp, then a cheer erupted, tentative at first, then building into a roar that shook the leaves in the trees. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated release.
People embraced, laughed, cried. For the first time in living memory, the Van der Linde gang had something to move towards, not just something to flee from.
In the joyous chaos, Caleb caught Arthur's eye. Arthur nodded at him, a look of deep, unspoken gratitude passing between them. The plan was working.
The gang was being steered toward safety, stability, and irrelevance, a far better fate than the bloody end they'd been racing towards. And as the camp exploded into a frenzy of packing and preparation, fueled by hope, Caleb knew the most dangerous part of his plan, securing the gang's future, was now assured.
Now, he could fully focus on building what he wanted now freely, wile also ensuring that the gang would love a new life.
The cheer eventually softened into a warm, sustained hum, laughter, conversation, the clatter of plates and tin cups, before the practical reality of Hosea's announcement settled in. A home. A real one. And with that realization came motion.
Caleb didn't linger in the afterglow. He stood, stretched the stiffness from his back, and headed straight for his tent. If they were moving tonight, then he would do his part properly.
Caleb moved through it with a quiet efficiency, first seeing to his own meager possessions. His tent came down easily, the canvas folded into a tight square. His bedroll was tied, and his wooden chest, containing a few changes of clothes, some personal hygiene items, and a couple of well worn books belonging to Mary-Beth, was secured.
He would sleep under the stars tonight, it was a small price to pay for the promise of a real roof tomorrow.
With his own area cleared, he turned to the heavier tasks. He fell into the rhythm of the camp, following the sharp but today uncharacteristically lenient directives of Miss Grimshaw.
He helped Bill and Charles heave the massive stew pot onto a wagon, the iron groaning in protest. He assisted Pearson in dismantling his cooking station, carefully wrapping the cleavers and knives in burlap, and storing the myriad of spices in a crate to prevent spillage.
"Careful with that oregano, Caleb!" Pearson fussed, but his usual bluster was softened by the grin he couldn't keep off his face. "It's the heart of my secret recipe!"
"Wouldn't dream of harming the heart, Pearson," Caleb replied, securing the lid.
He then moved to the medicine wagon, a task that brought him into contact with Reverend Swanson. The man was a revelation. Sober, clear eyed, and moving with a purpose Caleb had never seen in him before. He was meticulously organizing vials of tonics, bandages, and surgical tools alongside a watchful Miss Grimshaw.
"Reverend," Caleb greeted, lifting a heavy crate of medical supplies.
"Caleb," Swanson nodded, a peaceful smile on his face. "A night for new beginnings, is it not? For all of us." There was no slur in his words, no tremor in his hands.
The pervasive gloom that had clung to him was gone, burned away by the collective hope of the camp. Caleb surmised that with no recent deaths haunting the gang, and with the oppressive cloud of Dutch's decline and Milton's pursuit lifted, Swanson had found a reason to claw his way back from the brink.
Even Bill was working with a focused, grumbling efficiency, his usual surliness tempered into something almost cooperative. The positive vibe was infectious, a tangible force that sped the work along so swiftly that Miss Grimshaw found herself with moments of unaccustomed idleness.
At one point, as Caleb and Javier were lashing a wagon's canvas cover down, she stood nearby, hands on her hips, surveying the bustling scene. A dry, almost hesitant chuckle escaped her.
"Well, look at this," she said, loud enough for those nearby to hear. "Seems for the first time in a decade, I don't have to play shepherd to a flock of cats. They actually know which end of a hammer to hold."
The comment drew surprised laughs from Pearson and Uncle, who was, for a miracle, actually carrying a box. Miss Grimshaw allowed herself a small, tight smile, a crack in her stern exterior that revealed the bedrock of care beneath.
Caleb simply nodded in her direction, having long understood that her iron discipline was the framework that had held this fragile family together.
By the time the sun began to dip below the treeline, the camp was skeletal. The wagons were packed high and tight. In the center of the cleared space, Pearson had set up a makeshift tripod for his stew pot over the main campfire, determined to give the Clemens Point site a proper send off. And what a send off it was.
The stew he served that night was, by universal acclamation, the best he had ever concocted. Rich, hearty, perfectly seasoned, it tasted like victory and comfort all in one. Compliments flowed freely, and Pearson beamed, his chest puffed out with pride. "It's the hope, you see!" he declared. "Best spice there is!"
They ate together, a full circle around the roaring fire, a rarity in itself. Stories were told, not of past scores or narrow escapes, but of idle dreams. Tilly talked of wanting a proper garden. Charles mentioned good hunting grounds near the Heartlands. Lenny and Hosea debated the merits of various books they hoped to find in Valentine's saloon. The laughter was easy, unforced.
Caleb found a seat on a log, a bowl of stew in his hands, and simply absorbed it. Mary-Beth settled beside him, her notebook in her lap.
"It's like the air itself changed, Caleb," she said softly, her eyes reflecting the firelight. "It's lighter."
"It is," he agreed. "The weight's been lifted."
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.
...
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: -