The routine settled in quicker than Cain expected. Mornings came early he'd wake before the sun, stretch the stiffness from his body, and push through a few exercises on the creaking hotel floor. Then it was straight to the post office, running letters and parcels through Valentine's muddy streets until his lungs burned. By midday, he'd trade that work for the stables, mucking out stalls, hauling water, brushing hides until Amos finally let him go.
By day's end, Cain's pockets held four dollars. One went to room and board, another half on the days he allowed himself the luxury of breakfast. That left him with a steady two and a half to stash away. Slow, but steady.
Two weeks passed in the blink of an eye. To his surprise, the math added up, forty dollars saved, even after expenses. Cain decided he'd earned the right to stop looking like an out-of-place fool.
At the general store, he laid out $16.50 for an outfit that finally matched the land around him: a dark red shirt, black trousers, boots sturdy enough for dust and mud, and a broad-brimmed black hat that shadowed his sharp features. When he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he almost didn't recognize the man staring back. Not some lost stranger anymore, he looked the part of a cowboy.
And the town noticed. Women glanced twice as he passed, their eyes following the clean lines of his frame and the quiet confidence in his stride.
Hard work had changed him. His palms had callused, his arms and shoulders had thickened, and a dark stubble marked his jaw. His jet-black hair had grown longer, brushing his collar. Cain carried himself different now, less like an outsider, more like a man who belonged.
During his first week in Valentine, Cain made it clear to Amos that he wouldn't always be at the stables. Some days, he'd be trying his hand at Bob's butcher shop. Amos just shrugged, work was work, and if the boy stuck to his word, that was good enough.
Bob, however, wasn't so quick to trust. The butcher was a stocky, broad man with a permanent scowl etched into his face, and when Cain first stepped through his door, Bob sized him up like a cut of questionable meat.
"You don't look the type to handle blood, son," Bob muttered, wiping his knife on a rag.
Cain didn't argue. He wasn't the type, but he needed to learn. Butchery meant more than coin; it meant survival.
The first few days were rough. The smell of iron-heavy blood clung to his clothes, and more than once, his stomach twisted as he helped hang a carcass or peel back a fresh hide. But Cain had a stubborn streak. If his hands shook, he forced them still. If his gut wavered, he swallowed it down. Little by little, he grew harder.
By the second week, the disgust dulled. Cain found a rhythm, splitting joints, cutting along muscle lines, salting and drying strips of meat. He learned fast, and more importantly, he asked questions.
Bob noticed.
"You got a curious mind, kid," the butcher said one afternoon, handing Cain a small, well-balanced knife from his personal collection. "Keep it sharp, keep it close. World's not kind to empty hands."
Cain took the gift with quiet respect, sliding it into his pocket. Men like Bob and Amos had built their lives on skill and grit, and Cain admired that. They weren't just earning coin, they were masters of their craft. If he was going to survive here, Cain decided, he'd need to follow their example.
Cain had a new goal now, a horse of his own. The cheapest one at Amos' stable went for fifteen dollars. It wasn't much, with him still having a little over twenty dollars, but after splurging on that new outfit, he'd have to wait a few more weeks before he could even think about splurging again. "Give it time." he told himself. Two, maybe three weeks, and that horse would be his.
For now, he kept his head down and did honest work. The townsfolk had started recognizing him, nods from the ranch hands, a "mornin'" from the blacksmith, the occasional smile from a shopkeeper. They respected a man who worked without complaint, and that meant something. Cain was glad for it, it meant he was becoming part of the rhythm of Valentine.
Of course, not everyone's attention was so wholesome. The saloon girls had taken notice too, flashing smiles, brushing past him just a bit too close. He wasn't used to that kind of attention. Back in his time, people were too busy looking down at their phones to look at each other, much less flirt so openly. It flustered him at first, sure, but Cain had his reasons for keeping his distance.
For one, diseases in this era were as deadly as bullets, and medicine wasn't much better than whiskey and prayers. He wasn't about to die that way. And second, he remembered a lyric from one of Kanye West's old songs: "One good girl is worth a thousand bitches." Crude as it was, it rang true. If he was going to find someone, it wouldn't be a fling, it'd be someone worth the effort.
Until then, Cain figured he'd stick to his grind. The world might've changed, but hard work still meant something.
Cain was walking back to Smithfield's Saloon, bone-tired and ready for a meal and maybe a few minutes of peace. The sun had dipped low, the town painted in shades of amber and dust, when a woman suddenly hurried toward him.
"Mister! Mister! I'm in a real bind!" she called out, her voice trembling. She was a saloon girl, long blonde hair in a braided ponytail, corset half-undone, eyes wide with panic. "This feller, he's in a bad way! You gotta help me! I'll pay you!"
Cain blinked. Something about this felt familiar, like déjà vu clawing at the back of his head. A memory from the game, maybe. But he shook it off. He wasn't about to treat this world like a video game.
"Alright," he said cautiously. "Where is he?"
"Inside, upstairs! Please, hurry!"
Cain sighed and followed, his boots thudding against the wooden floor as they climbed. She stopped at a room, opened the door, and stepped in first. Cain followed, then froze.
The smell hit him first. Rot and iron. Then his eyes landed on the bed.
A man lay there, dead, his chest caved in, blood soaking the sheets.
Cain's stomach dropped. He knew this scene. The prostitute, the one who lured men to their deaths. A random encounter from Red Dead Redemption 2.
And now he was standing in the middle of it.
"I-it was me or him, I swear it!" the woman stammered, eyes darting wildly. "Please, sir, can you get rid of him? I'll pay you! Every cent I got!"
Cain's face went blank as he slowly stepped backward. His mind was racing. If he refused, she'd attack him. If he helped, he'd be an accomplice.
"W-well… ya see, miss…" he said, scratching his neck, forcing a shaky grin.
Then he spun on his heel. "I'm gonna run away!" he shouted, bolting out the door.
"Bastard! Come back here!"
Cain looked back just in time to see the flash of a knife.
"Oh hell nah!!" he yelled, vaulting down the stairs two at a time as the saloon erupted into chaos. Patrons ducked, tables overturned, chairs clattered.
"MURDERER!" Cain shouted at the top of his lungs. "CALL THE SHERIFF! THERE'S A MURDERER IN THE SALOON!"
The woman tackled him from behind near the bar, both of them crashing into a table. The knife gleamed inches from his throat as Cain wrestled her wrist, his muscles straining.
"Lady, you really need better life choices!" he grunted, fighting to keep the blade away.
The saloon had erupted into chaos, boots stomping, chairs scraping. Before Cain could even react, two burly patrons rushed in, grabbing the blonde woman by the arms and tearing her off him. The knife clattered to the floor, skidding under a table.
"Got her!" one of them grunted as another man yanked a coil of rope from behind the bar. In practiced motions, they bound her wrists and ankles tight, ignoring her shrieks.
Cain leaned against the counter, catching his breath, sweat trickling down his temple. "Thank you…" he managed as one of the men helped him back to his feet.
"She tried to kill me," Cain explained, pointing toward the bound woman. "After I refused to help hide the body of a man she murdered upstairs."
The crowd gasped, murmurs spreading like wildfire. Heads turned toward the staircase.
"I told you it was self-defense!" the woman shouted, her voice breaking. "That man tried to choke me! I had no choice!"
Cain took a slow step forward, eyes steady. "If that's true, then where are the bruises? Where's the struggle marks on your neck?" His tone was calm, but his words carried weight. "And why kill him when you could've screamed for help? There's a dozen men in this saloon who would've come running."
The room fell silent except for the creak of floorboards and the hiss of a lantern. The woman's mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.
"I… I…" she stammered, voice trailing off.
Then, a new voice, calm, deep, and carrying authority, cut through the quiet,
"Well, well, well… what seems to be the problem here?"
The crowd parted as Sheriff Malloy stepped through the doors, his badge glinting under the lamplight. Dust clung to his long coat, his hand resting casually near his holster.
Cain exhaled, relief flooding his chest. "Sheriff," he said, nodding. "We've got ourselves a dead man upstairs, and a woman who tried to make me the next one."
The sheriff's expression didn't change. He looked from Cain to the woman, then toward the staircase. "Alright," he said slowly. "Let's get the facts straight before anyone else ends up dead."
He tilted his hat up slightly, eyes narrowing. "Start talkin', miss. And make it good."
To be continued.....
(Comment, power stones)