"You want to what, son?" Malloy sat up straighter behind his desk as Cain stood in the doorway, jaw set. The sheriff's office smelled of tobacco and old paper, and dust motes hung in the shaft of light cutting the room in two.
"I want to start bounty hunting. Give me something I can start with." Cain's voice was steady, but there was steel under it now, the kind you get after nights awake and days spent surviving.
Malloy blinked, then let out a long sigh. "Figured as much. You ain't the type to sit on your hands in this place." He opened a drawer and pulled out a thin stack of files, sliding one across the desk to Cain. "Start small. Word is there's a gang camped in Cumberland Forest. They rob folks on the road. Take care of them, bring proof, and the county'll pony up eighty dollars."
Cain's eyes widened. Eighty dollars. That was twenty days of stables-and-post-office pay all at once.
"Numbers?" Cain asked, already scanning the page for names, a map, anything useful.
"Six, maybe seven," Malloy said. "Scattershot bunch, not the worst organized gang, but they're mean and experienced. You aim true and reload faster than they can breathe, you'll be fine. Don't go in thinking it's a walk." He folded his hands. "You sure you're ready for this?"
Cain hesitated. The question landed like a stone in his gut. "No," he admitted after a breath. "Not ready at all. But I'll get used to it."
Malloy's eyes softened then hardened in the same breath. "You don't 'get used' to killin', Cain. You learn to accept it as a thing you did for a reason. Don't let it turn you into something you hate. These men you're after, they rob and maim and leave people dead. You're doin' a mercy for the rest of us, not indulging in blood."
Cain nodded and left. The sheriff's words followed him into the street like a warning bell.
The smithy was next. Spencer, the town gunsmith, ran a small shop that clanged and smelled of oil and hot metal. Cain walked in and felt every eye measure the newcomer now dressed and carrying himself unlike the man who'd first staggered into Valentine.
"What's it gonna be?" Spencer asked, wiping his hands on a rag.
Cain laid the map on the counter and told him where he was headed. Spencer hummed, then reached behind the counter and set out a short, practical revolver, nothing fancy, but reliable, a box of cartridges, a spare cylinder, and a leather satchel.
"You want somethin' that won't jam on you," Spencer said, fitting a cartridge with practiced fingers. "This'll do for close work — six rounds, solid recoil. I can give you better aim practice if you want." He named a price; Cain handed over cash without blinking. He'd saved for this moment.
Cain bought a reliable six-shooter (clean, oiled), 3 boxes of cartridges (12 rounds each), a spare cylinder, a small satchel for ammo and a knife he'd keep at his hip.
Spencer nodded as Cain strapped the revolver in. "You got sense to ask for help. Don't be a hero, use your head. Bandits like to set traps. Move quiet, watch the wind, don't let the sun be in your eyes."
Cain left the shop feeling heavier and sharper at the same time. Cumberland Forest loomed in his mind like a promise and a threat; eighty dollars dangled at the end of it. He'd spend the night checking his ammo, sleeping little, and trying not to think about the weight of taking lives for a ledger.
Malloy's warning still echoed: don't let it take your soul.
Cain tightened Mabel's reins and headed for the edge of town, one step closer to a life he'd chosen, and the kind of man he'd have to become to live with it.
....
He crouched low, brushing past the ferns and moss-covered roots as the late afternoon sun filtered through the canopy. The forest was eerily quiet, save for the chirping of cicadas and the distant rush of wind brushing against the treetops. His heart thudded in his chest, not from fear, but anticipation.
He moved carefully, hand hovering near his revolver. Then, faintly, he heard laughter. Male voices. The clinking of bottles. Cain followed the sound, creeping closer until he saw them: six men around a campfire, their horses tied nearby, rifles leaning against a fallen log.
One of them, a large man with a red bandana, was boasting. "Stupid merchant didn't even see it comin'. Begged for his life too."
Cain's jaw tightened. 'Scum of the earth,' he remembered Malloy's words. He steadied his breathing, eyes narrowing as he assessed their positions. Two near the fire. One on lookout. Three by the wagon.
"Alright, Cain," he muttered under his breath, "first real hunt."
He cocked the hammer slowly. The click echoed like thunder in his ears.
Cain fired the first shot, clean, sharp, and fatal. The bullet struck the boasting man right between the eyes, cutting his laughter short. For a heartbeat, silence. Then chaos.
"Shit! We're under fire—Ack!" one of them shouted, scrambling for his rifle. Cain's second shot came before the words had even finished leaving the man's mouth, another body dropped beside the campfire.
Now they knew where he was. Bullets ripped through the air, splintering bark and leaves as Cain ducked behind a thick oak. He flinched as wood chips grazed his face, the crack of gunfire echoing through the forest. His heart pounded so loudly it drowned out his thoughts.
The shooting stopped. Reloading.
Cain spun out from cover, taking aim. Two more fell, one slumped over the wagon, the other collapsing beside his horse. The smell of gunpowder filled the air, mixing with the iron tang of blood. Only one man left, Cain could hear his boots crunching through leaves, trying to circle around. Cain caught his shadow first. One last pull of the trigger aimed at the chest, and it was over.
He stood still for a long moment, breathing heavy, revolver trembling slightly in his hand. Then, slowly, he walked into the clearing, surveying the aftermath. The fire crackled, indifferent to the carnage around it.
Cain started searching the camp, ammo, supplies, anything useful. His mind was still racing when he heard a faint rasp behind him.
Click.
He turned just in time to see one of the bandits, the one he'd shot in the chest, raising his rifle from where he lay on the ground, blood bubbling at his lips.
"Damn you…" the man wheezed, and fired.
Cain dove sideways. The bullet hissed past, grazing his chin and tearing through skin. He hit the dirt hard, rolling and firing back on instinct. The bandit's body went still for good this time.
Cain sat up slowly, touching the blood dripping down his chin. It stung. Badly.
He looked around at the bodies, then at his own trembling hands. "Guess that's… part of it," he muttered to himself.
The forest was quiet again. Too quiet.
"Let's just... do what you do in the game after a fight..." Cain muttered under his breath, his voice low and uneven. He forced himself to move, to act, anything to keep from thinking too much.
He stepped over the dead bodies and began searching the camp. The smell of gunpowder still hung thick in the air. Inside one of the tents, he found a half-open chest filled with cash, a few pieces of jewelry, and several silver watches glinting in the dim firelight. Nearby were crates of alcohol, stacks of canned food, and boxes of ammunition.
Cain crouched down, sorting through it all. "Bottles of alcohol… I'll sell these. Food, keep it. Ammo, definitely taking that." His tone was mechanical, almost rehearsed, like he was trying to convince himself this was just a job.
He picked up one of the bandits' rifles, an old Springfieldz and checked the chamber. Clean enough, barely used. "It's mine now," he muttered.
Then his eyes fell on a gold pocket watch lying beside the chest. It wasn't just valuable, it was beautiful. He turned it in his hand, watching the reflection of the campfire dance across the engraved surface. For some reason, it felt heavier than it should've.
"This… I need," he whispered, slipping it into his coat pocket.
When he finally walked back to Mabel, the weight of it all began to hit him, the bodies, the gunfire, the blood drying on his chin. The forest was silent except for his footsteps.
As he mounted up, a shiver crawled down his spine. What he'd done wasn't just a job, it was killing. Real killing.
He took a deep breath, looking once over his shoulder at the camp before turning Mabel toward Valentine.
There was no turning back now.