"It's done." Cain's boots thudded on the boardwalk as he approached the sheriff's office. Malloy, who'd been waiting outside, turned at the sound and nodded as Cain drew near.
"Good work, son. What did you find?" Malloy asked, a new respect in his voice, Cain had proven himself useful, and the sheriff's trust had begun to harden into something like reliance.
"An O'Driscoll hideout," Cain said, sliding the bundle of ledgers, receipts, and notes across the sheriff's desk. "Doc was being used, he and his family held hostage, forced to let them run things out back. Found these."
Malloy took the papers like a man receiving secrets. He leafed through them slowly, the weight of the evidence clear in his furrowed brow. "This is deeper than I thought," he muttered. "If this goes where I suspect… we're not just talking petty thievery." He looked up, eyes narrowing. "Good riddance to the O'Driscolls, I'd say. Town'll sleep easier. But you didn't come back with just these, did you?"
Cain let his hand rest on the butt of the Schofield at his waist with casual finality. "Consider it my payment for helpin' you cover up your mess," he said flatly, leaving no room for argument.
Malloy's mouth tightened, but he said nothing. Cain turned and walked away into the night.
"I'll be back tomorrow," Cain added over his shoulder. "This smells bigger. I want in." He didn't wait for an answer. The sheriff watched him go, as Cain disappeared into the night.
...
"Heard you handled your first job," Amos said with a grin as Cain approached the stables. The older man leaned against a wooden post, his sleeves rolled up and his shirt stained with dust and hay. "Word's spread fast. You're the talk of Valentine, son."
Cain smirked faintly, brushing a hand along his chin where the graze wound had already started to scar. "Guess bad news travels quick."
Amos chuckled, the sound low and warm, as he wiped his hands on a rag that had seen better days. "That little mark there's gonna be famous one day. Folk'll see it and say, 'There goes the man who cleaned up Cumberland.'"
Cain huffed through his nose, a quiet half-laugh. "Or the man who almost got his head taken clean off."
"That too," Amos said, shaking his head. "But scars tell stories, boy. I'd rather have a face full o' stories than one too clean to be trusted."
Cain didn't answer right away. He stood by Mabel's side, brushing her mane with slow, absent strokes. "Maybe," he murmured, "but I'd rather not earn another one of these anytime soon."
Amos glanced at him, his grin fading into something more thoughtful. "Then you best ride smart, son. This world don't take kindly to heroes."
Cain looked up. "Heroes?"
"Yeah," Amos said, leaning against the post again, the wood creaking under his weight. "You do a few good things, folks start clappin' you on the back. They buy you drinks, call you a good man. But the moment you say 'no' to someone, or you kill the wrong son of a bitch, they'll turn. You'll go from savior to killer before you even blink."
Cain's brow furrowed, his hand stilling on Mabel's mane. "You sound like you've seen it happen."
"I did," Amos said quietly. "Few years ago. Fella just like you. Quick on the draw, clean heart, too damn eager to make things right. Ended up with a noose around his neck because a rich man's son caught a bullet."
The silence hung heavy for a moment. Cain glanced down, his thumb tracing the metal buckle of his saddlebag. "So what'd you do?"
Amos smiled faintly, though there was no joy in it. "Learned to keep my head down. Ain't no shame in surviving quiet."
Cain nodded slowly, the weight of those words sinking in. "Maybe so," he said, strapping his gear tight. "But quiet's never really been my thing."
Amos laughed, the kind of laugh that came with a hint of pity. "Yeah, I figured that out the first day you walked in here."
Cain gave a half-smile as he mounted Mabel. "Guess I'll learn the hard way, then."
"You will," Amos said, watching him ride off toward the sunset-streaked road. "You sure as hell will."
Cain worked half a day at Amos's, shoveling hay, cleaning stalls, and feeding the horses until the sweat clung to his shirt and the smell of leather and earth filled his lungs. Amos paid him a dollar for his trouble, honest pay, hard-earned.
He still pulled shifts at the post office too, his routine steady as clockwork. The only thing that changed was him. His mornings now began with stretches and calisthenics in the gray light of dawn, body moving with a quiet determination. Ever since Cumberland, he'd started to train harder, sharpening himself, as if preparing for something he couldn't quite name.
By the time he bid Amos farewell and headed toward the sheriff's office, the sun had climbed high, burning the dust road pale and dry. Valentine buzzed as it always did, horses clopping by, a drunk laughing too loud, the smell of stew wafting from the saloon. But the air today carried something else too, gossip.
Cain had heard it all morning. The same words rolling off different tongues. Five men, dead. Shot up near the back of the doctor's office. At first, folks were horrified, five murders in one night. A monster, they said. A killer walking among them.
Then word spread about who those men were. O'Driscolls.
And just like that, the outrage vanished. The town went quiet, indifferent. Laughter returned, the talk shifted back to weather and horses. No one cared anymore.
Cain walked through it all, the whispers following him like the ghost of gunfire. 'Funny...' he thought, 'how quick folks change their tune once they find out the dead had it coming.'
By the time he reached the sheriff's office, the chatter had settled into a low hum behind him. The sun cast long, sharp shadows across the porch steps as he reached for the door handle, jaw tightening with a thought he couldn't quite shake.
'People sure like their justice clean,' he mused, 'so long as someone else gets their hands dirty.'
"Ah, Cain. Just the man I was lookin' for."
Malloy's voice carried from behind his desk, cigar smoldering low between two fingers. "Got someone here askin' for you by name."
Cain followed his gaze to the corner of the office, and blinked in faint surprise.
It was the trader he'd given a ride to a few days back, the same man who'd filled the quiet road with talk of God, family, and the price of peace.
"Well, I'll be damned," Cain muttered, stepping forward. "We meet again, mister."
The man rose with a tired smile, extending his hand. "Didn't catch your name last time. Cain, was it? Call me Liam. Liam Burke."
Cain shook his hand firmly. "Alright, Liam. What is it you need help with?"
Liam let out a sigh that carried more frustration than fear. "You remember how I looked like I owned nothin' when you found me? That's 'cause I didn't. My wagon got stolen, couple hours before you came along. Took everything I had."
Cain leaned against the edge of Malloy's desk, folding his arms. "Lemme guess, it ain't just some lost wagon, is it?"
Liam nodded grimly. "Heard word it was spotted near Citadel Rock. Guarded by bandits. I'm askin' you to get it back for me, forcefully, if need be."
"What's so important about that wagon?"
"I'm a trader, mister Cain," Liam said, voice tight. "That wagon's my livelihood. Without it, I can't feed my family, can't make a dime. Everything I own's in there."
Cain glanced toward Malloy, who was shuffling through a few papers Cain had given him the night before. The sheriff tapped one of the sheets and smirked. "That problem of his? It ties right into that mess you stirred up last night. Names match up."
Cain's eyes narrowed. "O'Driscolls?"
Malloy just nodded.
"Well," Cain muttered, cracking his knuckles, "that explains a lot."
Liam straightened up, desperation flickering behind his eyes. "I'll pay you a hundred dollars, and half the profit I make from sellin' my wares, just get my wagon back. Please."
Cain hesitated for a second, then shook his head. "You don't need to give me that much. A hundred's plenty already."
A smile of relief broke across Liam's face, though it barely masked the weariness beneath it.
Malloy chuckled. "Looks like you've got yourself another job, Cain. Try not to burn half the forest down while you're at it."
Cain smirked faintly. "No promises."
As Cain turned to leave, Malloy's voice stopped him cold.
"And Cain…"
He paused, glancing over his shoulder. The sheriff was watching him closely, arms folded, cigar smoke curling up into the warm afternoon light.
"When you're done settlin' his problem," Malloy said evenly, "we've got some discussin' to do."
Cain met his gaze for a moment — the kind of look where both men already knew this wasn't about small talk.
"Yup…" Cain muttered, adjusting his hat. "You got it, sheriff."
He stepped out into the dusty street, boots crunching on gravel, and the office door creaked shut behind him, cutting off the smell of tobacco and law.
To be continued.....