Cain moved quietly through the alley, boots barely crunching on the gravel. The town was calm at this hour, a few drunks stumbling home, a dog barking in the distance, but the hush made every sound sharper.
He reached the doctor's office soon enough. From the back door came the low murmur of voices. Cain pressed his shoulder to the wall, tilting his head to listen.
"…same deal as last time," a gruff voice whispered. "You keep quiet, and we keep your pockets lined."
The other voice, the deputy's, answered low and nervous. "Sheriff's been watchin' closer lately. You best hope he don't sniff this out."
Coins clinked. The back door creaked shut.
Cain frowned. So that was it, bribery behind the doctor's office. He could end it right now if he wanted to, but something in his gut told him to hold off. The last thing he needed was to explain why a man fresh off a bounty job just gunned down someone behind a clinic.
He turned and slipped away as quietly as he came.
Minutes later, Cain stepped back into the sheriff's office. Malloy sat behind his desk, a half-burned cigar glowing between his fingers.
"Well?"
Cain dropped his voice. "Your lawman's being paid hush money. The doc, well, it didn't sound like the doc... I think someone else is runnin' something in the back."
Malloy's jaw tightened. He didn't look surprised. "Figured as much," he muttered, tapping ash into the tray. "Been smellin' rot for weeks now."
He leaned back, exhaling smoke. "Guess I just needed proof."
"You gonna just sit on this now that you know?" Cain said, voice low and hard. He stared Malloy down, all the tired resolve of a man who'd already seen too much.
Malloy arched an eyebrow. "Of course we're gonna do something. Only...." He stood, walking around the desk until he was close enough Cain could smell the tobacco on his breath. "you're the one who's gonna do it. I'll make sure no one points fingers your way."
Cain's jaw tightened. "I'm all for cleanin' up this town, sheriff. But you asked a bounty hunter to help, you know what that means. I want—"
"You'll be paid," Malloy interrupted, calm but firm. "Handsomely at that. And listen to me son, don't start a gunfight. If you go in guns blazing, I can't cover for you. You get folk dead and it looks like a lynchin'. Move smart. Move quiet."
Cain looked up and caught the night sky beyond the window for a second, thinking of stew he should've eaten an hour ago. His sense of duty had a way of disrupting his eating plans.
"I'll be back soon," he muttered, more to himself than to Malloy, and pushed the door open.
Malloy watched him go, the lamplight carving lines into the sheriff's face like a map of every hard choice he'd ever made.
The corrupt lawman was gone now. Cain stood before the metal door, the lamplight glinting faintly off its surface.
'How's no one noticed this before? Why would a doctor need metal doors and covered windows?'
He ran a thumb along the cold frame, gaze flicking between the bolted seams and the blacked-out glass. Something about it stank, and it wasn't just the back alley air.
Cain drew his knife, crouched, and eyed the keyhole. The blade slipped in with a faint click. The lock gave way with a muted snap.
He slipped inside.
Four men sat around a crude table littered with bottles, cards, and the half-burned end of a cigar. No doctor in sight.
Cain froze, heart steady but sharp, the smell of cheap whiskey and sweat hitting him like a wall.
'Right… if this plays out like the game, these are O'Driscolls and the Doctor's being forced to let them run their 'business' out the back.'
Cain took a slow breath, stepping lightly as his boots brushed against the dusty floor. The O'Driscolls were too busy drinking and laughing to notice the door's faint creak behind them.
One of them, a brute with a scar across his chin, slammed his cup down. "Told ya, Doc's got no choice. Long as we pay him, he ain't sayin' a word."
Cain ducked behind a shelf stacked with bottles and boxes of morphine. He could see the reflection of their faces in the glass, four of them, all armed, all too deep in their own arrogance to look behind.
He spotted something, a lantern hanging on a hook near the back door. One well-aimed throw could turn it into chaos. But fire meant noise, and noise meant witnesses.
'No. Clean and quiet. Like doing a stealth run.' He moved to the nearest man, crouched low. The man leaned back in his chair, humming tunelessly as he reached for another bottle.
Cain's arm wrapped around his throat in a flash, muffling his gasp. The man kicked once, then went still. Cain dragged the body behind the crates.
Three left.
The next one turned at the sound of a chair scraping slightly, Cain froze. The O'Driscoll squinted at the shadows. "Jeb? You good?"
No answer.
"Damn drunk."
The man sat back down. Cain reached for his knife again. Another clean strike. Another silent drop.
Two left.
The last two finally noticed something was off when one of them tripped on an outstretched boot. "The hell—?"
Before they could turn, Cain fired a single suppressed shot, not a silencer, but the barrel wrapped with a thick cloth to muffle it. The first man fell. The second spun around, firing wildly into the dark.
Cain rushed him, slamming him against the wall before driving his knee into the man's gut. The gun clattered to the floor.
The room went silent again, except for Cain's quiet breathing. He straightened, looking over the bodies.
Killing still didn't feel right. It never did. But these were O'Driscolls, the worst of the worst out here, and Cain let himself believe the math of it, fewer monsters on the road, fewer innocents hurt.
He moved through the dim room with a quiet, clinical calm, searching for anything useful. On the table lay a folded roll of bills; fifty dollars, still warm from hands that no longer needed it. Cain didn't hesitate, he tucked it into his pocket.
In the corner sat a gun case. He flipped it open and smiled without humor. A Schofield revolver rested inside: a heavy, accurate piece built for serious shooters. Cain slid it into his belt. Now he had two revolvers, one for speed, one for stopping power.
He kept looking. Cabinets, crates, a locked drawer, nothing yet. Then, behind an overturned chair, his fingers struck cold metal, a small safe bolted into the floor. He crouched down, feeling the weight of the thing under his palms. No fancy tools, no time for finesse, just the stubborn muscle of a man used to doors that wouldn't open for him.
Cain set his knife to work, working the tumblers with patient, practiced movements. The lock resisted, then clicked. The safe lid lifted with a soft, final sigh.
Inside were papers, ledgers, names, receipts, and a fat purse of paper bills and coins. More than the fifty he'd taken from the table. Cain did a quick count and rejoiced. He was now $250 richer just like that. There were also documents that smelled of business, payoffs, times, and amounts. Proof that this operation wasn't just petty crime, it was organized, persistent, and deeply connected.
He tucked the papers and all the money into his pack, then glanced once more at the still forms around him. The town outside was quiet, the evening light thin through the boarded windows.
There was no celebrating. Only the long, steady realization that what he'd done would change him, step by step, choice by choice. He strapped the Schofield, checked his other revolver, and slipped out into the night.
To be continued.....
(Comment and power stones)
(Money:$540)
(Guns: Schofield Revolver, Standard Revolver, Repeater Rifle)