"Already on another mission, son? It's only yesterday you went on your first one."
Spencer leaned against the counter, raising an eyebrow as Cain pushed through the gunsmith's door, the faint jingle of the bell marking his arrival.
"Well, there's always scum to get rid of," Cain replied, voice low and even. He slid a few bills across the counter. "Hundred and twenty revolver cartridges, same for repeater. Five dollars, right?"
Spencer nodded, bagging the rounds. "You got yourself a repeater now?"
"Looted one yesterday," Cain said simply, loading the fresh ammo into his gun belt.
Spencer chuckled, shaking his head. "You're movin' fast, boy. Best of luck out there, and try not to earn another one of those." He gestured at the faint scar that traced Cain's cheek.
Cain smirked, tipping his hat as he turned for the door. "No promises."
The bell jingled again as he stepped out, sunlight spilling over him and Mabel, his horse waiting faithfully by the post. He mounted up, the weight of iron and gunpowder settling against his side, familiar now, almost comforting.
"Mister Cain, let me come with you!"
Cain pulled on the reins, his horse snorting as he slowed near the edge of Valentine. The morning mist hadn't yet burned off, and the dirt road shimmered faintly under the rising sun. He turned in his saddle to see Liam jogging up, a determined look on his face.
"Why, Liam?" Cain asked, brow furrowed. "It's dangerous out there. I can't focus on two things at once."
"You forget I was an ex–bounty hunter, Mister Cain." Liam caught his breath, resting his hands on his hips. "I can handle myself just fine. Besides, I'm only coming to collect my wagon. You can escort me back to Valentine after."
Cain studied him for a long moment, the silence filled only by the soft creak of leather and the distant whinny of horses from the stables. Then he sighed, rubbing his temple.
"Fine," he muttered at last, his tone reluctant. "But stay behind cover. Let me do the work."
Liam grinned, tipping his hat. "Deal."
Cain gave a small shake of his head, amused despite himself, and nudged his horse forward. The two men rode until the town faded behind them, swallowed by the rolling hills and the promise of trouble ahead.
(Money:$535)
(Guns: Schofield Revolver, Standard Revolver, Repeater Rifle)
.....
Citadel Rock wasn't far, though the silence made it feel like a longer ride than it was. The steady clop of hooves echoed through the open hills, blending with the low rustle of the wind. Cain wasn't much of a talker at the moment, his words came sparingly, usually just to ask Liam where he figured the bandits might be holed up.
They rode in circles for a while, weaving through brush and narrow trails, until the air turned still. Then Cain slowed his horse, eyes narrowing.
"Hold up," he murmured. "Smoke… up ahead."
Liam reined in beside him, following his gaze. Thin wisps of smoke rose beyond the ridge, curling lazily into the pale afternoon sky.
"Campfire, maybe…" Cain muttered. He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a small brass spyglass, an old monocular kind, the sort Spencer's gunsmith still sold for a few dollars, and brought it to his eye.
Sure enough, a camp sat tucked against the rocks: one wagon, a tethered horse, and at least half a dozen men milling about with the careless ease of those who thought themselves safe. Rifles leaned against crates, and the fire between them crackled faintly in the wind.
Cain exhaled through his nose and lowered the glass, handing it to Liam.
"Found your wagon," he said quietly. "Now let's figure out how we're gonna take it back."
They slid down from Mabel's back, Cain patting the mare's flank and murmuring, "Stay put, girl. I'll be back." Mabel whinnied once, then nosed out toward a patch of grass, grazing with placid, patient movements as the two men moved away.
"That rock over there, perfect cover," Liam said, nodding toward a jagged outcrop half a ridge away. Cain agreed with a short, almost inaudible breath. The two of them crossed the scrub in low, slow steps, boots barely making a sound over the dry grass.
When they reached the outcrop, they sank into shadow. Cain mounted the repeater across the stone, the rifle settling into place like a part of him. He pressed his back to the cool rock, let his shoulders drop, and breathed in the faint scent of smoke from the camp below.
He lifted his head, just enough to peer over the lip. The camp lay spread out beneath them: a single wagon, a circle of men, a low fire that threw orange light over weathered faces and the glint of rifles propped nearby.
"Nine of 'em, maybe ten," Cain murmured. "Two by the fire, one on lookout, the rest lounging." His voice was low, the words measured, counting like a man taking inventory of danger.
Liam crouched, one hand resting on the butt of his revolver. He kept his voice quiet. "What's the plan?"
Cain's mouth pulled at the corner, half-smile, all business. "We make it quiet… until it can't be."
They fell into that thin, steady silence that comes before a storm, a silence full of motion and intent. The wind scraped through the rocks. Down below, the bandits laughed and argued over some small thing. Above them, two men sat pressed into the shadow of a rock, weighing the cost of the shot they were about to take.
"Alright," Liam whispered, crouched low beside him. "You take the lookout first. I'll move down the slope and flank right if things go south."
"If things go south," Cain replied quietly, "you ride for Mabel and get clear. Don't wait for me."
Liam gave a faint snort. "Not a chance."
Cain allowed himself the ghost of a grin before his face hardened again. He braced the repeater against the rock, lining up the iron sights on the guard pacing the ridge opposite them. The man yawned, bored, rifle slung loose in his hands.
"Here goes…" Liam murmured.
Cain drew a steady breath. Bang!
The crack split the quiet like lightning. The lookout's head snapped back, his body crumpled soundlessly into the dirt below. For half a heartbeat, everything held still. Then the camp erupted.
"What the hell?!"
"Up on the ridge!"
Cain shifted his aim fast, firing again, then again. Two men went down near the fire before the rest dove for cover. The smell of gunpowder rolled through the dry air.
Adrenaline surged hot through his veins. Cain's hands worked the lever instinctively, smooth and fast. Each pull sent another shot barking across the rocks. But then— crack-crack! The bandits fired back, bullets sparking off the stone inches from his head.
"Down!" he barked, ducking. A round slammed into the rock behind him, sending shards of stone across his sleeve.
Liam pressed himself against the dirt, eyes wide. "They know where we are now!"
Cain gritted his teeth, reloading quick. "Then let's make sure they regret it."
"They're reloading! Strike now!" Liam hissed. They launched from the rock in a single, practiced motion, feet thudding over scrub, breath sharp in their throats.
Cain drew his Schofield as he moved, iron cool and steady in his hand. He sighted on a bandit crouched behind an overturned crate and fired. The report cracked; the man's head snapped, and he slumped.
A second later a bullet whined past so close Cain felt the air tear against his cheek. Pain flared, hot and sudden, as metal grazed skin, opening the old wound into a fresh, angry gash that crossed his jaw into a raw X. Blood spattered onto his collar.
He tasted copper and swore under his breath. For a blink he considered falling back, but there was no time for that thought. Muscle memory took over, aim, fire, move.
Liam's voice cut through the ringing in Cain's ears. "You good?" Cain spat a little blood to the side and let out a humorless chuckle. "Another scar already?" he muttered, more to himself than to Liam, the words sharp and oddly light against the chaos.
Then he fired again, steady, efficient, a man dropped, another went down. The world narrowed to the weight of the pistol in his hand, the smell of powder, and the steady, terrible business of staying alive.
When the last bandit slumped, the hills answered with a heavy silence. Cain pressed a hand to his cheek, feeling the hot wetness under his fingers and the sting of it. He didn't have time to ponder meaning; he had a wagon and a trader to get back.
"Let's move," he said, voice low and steady. Liam nodded, and together they moved down toward the camp, leaving the ridge behind them and the afternoon sun cutting long shadows over the rocks.
Cain looted what he could around the camp, careful not to step over the bodies. He moved through the wreckage like a ghost, silent, detached, picking through crates and boxes instead of the dead. The smell of gunpowder and blood still hung thick in the air.
Liam, however, had no such restraint. He crouched beside a fallen bandit, rifling through pockets and belts for cartridges and bills.
"You're goin' through them…" Cain muttered, eyes narrowing slightly.
Liam glanced up, his hands still working. "Someday you're probably gonna do this too," he said quietly. "It's what's necessary."
He held out a small handful of notes and loose rounds. "Here. Twenty dollars, and some ammo for your guns. That was some damn fine shooting, Mister Cain."
Cain took the money without a word, staring at it for a moment before tucking it away. "Maybe," he murmured, "but it still don't feel right."
He whistled for Mabel, and the horse came trotting back through the brush, obedient as ever. A minute later, the two were on the move again, Liam atop his recovered wagon, Cain riding a few paces behind, rifle slung and eyes scanning the horizon.
The afternoon had gone quiet again. Too quiet.
They followed the narrow path that wound between the rocks, the sound of wagon wheels crunching over gravel breaking the still air. Cain's instincts prickled. He slowed Mabel's pace.
"Hold up…" he called out softly, but the warning came too late.
Gunfire erupted from the ridge above, the first shot tearing through the wagon's canvas, the second striking the dirt near Cain's boot. Horses screamed, and Liam ducked low behind the reins.
"Son of a—AMBUSH!" he yelled.
Cain spurred Mabel hard to the side, diving for cover behind a boulder as more bullets rained down. He drew his repeater in one smooth motion, eyes narrowing as he counted the flashes among the rocks.
"Three… maybe four," he muttered to himself, chambering a round. "Guess the O'Driscolls weren't done yet."
He raised the rifle, steady as ever despite the chaos, and returned fire, each shot measured, cold, deliberate.
The quiet had died. The fight was back on.
To be continued.....
(Money: $555)