Cain stepped out of the sheriff's office and made his way down the street, the evening sun painting the wooden boardwalks in amber. His boots carried him to the saloon first, not for a drink, but for a favor.
Inside, he found a middle-aged man cleaning mugs behind the counter and asked him for a hand tidying up his beard, which had started to grow uneven and rough around the jaw. Instead of asking the man to do it, Cain asked to learn. A few minutes later, with a small mirror and a steady hand, he practiced under the man's patient instructions.
By the end of it, his beard was neater, trimmed to frame his jaw rather than swallow it. He thanked the man and left a coin on the counter.
Next, he stopped by the barber's shop and paid a dollar to have his long, curly hair cut shorter. The barber, a chatty sort, called the new style "modern," though Cain just thought it looked cleaner. When the barber commented on the scars along his face, saying he'd heard good things about the man who carried them, Cain only smiled faintly.
From there, he headed to the tailor's. His coat had a tear near the shoulder, a small souvenir from the last shootout. The tailor fixed it for free, saying honest work deserved honest thanks. Cain agreed, murmuring, "Hard work's honest pay," before heading out into the cooling dusk.
By nightfall, he found himself back at the saloon. His supper was the same as always, stew and warm water, but tonight he added an egg for a little comfort, bringing the cost up to a full dollar. He ate quietly, eyes half-lidded as he listened to the low hum of conversation around him: farmers grumbling about lost cattle, travelers spinning half-true tales, the piano clinking somewhere in the background.
Cain didn't drink, and probably never would. But sitting there, alone among the noise, he felt a strange peace in simply listening, as if watching life unfold from the edges suited him just fine.
(Money: $653)
That night, Cain decided to try something new. He saddled Mabel and rode out beneath the hush of the moon, leaving Valentine's lanterns behind him. The air was cool and clear, carrying the faint smell of grass and gun oil. He rode until the town lights faded to fireflies in the distance, until the only sounds were his horse's breathing and the creak of leather.
He stopped at a small plain near Citadel Rock, a quiet stretch of open land that glowed silver under the starlight. Cain built himself a little campfire, feeding it twigs and dry grass until it came alive with a gentle crackle. He had no tent, no blanket, nothing fancy. Instead, he leaned against Mabel, who had already settled down, her steady warmth pressing against his back.
He took out a small block of wood and his knife, whittling absently while staring at the stars. Each spark from the fire rose and disappeared into the night, swallowed by the vast sky.
It was strange, he thought, how quickly a man could adapt. Only a month ago, he was someone else entirely, someone out of place, torn from a different world and thrown into this one. Back then, he'd felt lost, like a ghost haunting a land that wasn't his.
Now here he was, in the heart of the frontier, a bounty hunter with blood on his hands and dust on his boots. A man who'd learned to shoot, ride, and live by a code that wasn't written in books but carved into scars.
The fire popped softly. Mabel exhaled, long and content.
Cain looked up at the stars, endless and cold, but somehow comforting. "Guess I'm really here now," he murmured to himself, voice carried off by the wind.
For the first time in a long while, he felt both small and steady.
...
Cain sighed as he drank the last of his morning coffee, brewed over the faint glow of his campfire. The tin cup was still warm in his hands, the bitter scent of the beans lingering in the air. The coffee was a gift from Amos, a token of appreciation for weeks of steady work at the stable. Cain had grown to treasure it, not just for the taste, but for the calm that came with it.
He sat there for a while longer, savoring the silence before Valentine woke. From where he sat, the town was still wrapped in morning haze, the sunlight creeping slow and golden over the hills. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster called.
When the cup was empty, Cain packed up what little he had and rode back into town.
He decided to walk that morning, letting Mabel rest at the stable. As he wandered through the waking streets, he came across a small bookstore tucked between a gunsmith and a tailor's. The bell above the door chimed softly as he entered.
Inside, the place smelled of old paper and dust. Shelves leaned heavy with dime novels, tales of cowboys, detectives, and adventure. He ran his fingers across their spines until one title caught his eye: The Count of Monte Cristo.
"Dollar even," said the shopkeeper.
Cain nodded and handed over a coin. "Seems fair."
He left the store with the book under his arm, intending to read it at the saloon over breakfast. But on the way there, he passed a few familiar faces, a widow whose husband he knew died from bandits, sitting on the steps near the general store, and a barefoot orphan sweeping dust in front of the barbershop.
Cain paused each time, wordlessly slipping each a folded ten into their hands. He didn't stay long enough for thanks, and by the time anyone thought to ask who it was from, he was already gone, just another quiet figure moving through town with a book and a conscience.
(Money:$632)
Cain read The Count of Monte Cristo through the late morning, his stew growing cold beside him. The saloon was half-empty, sunlight cutting through the dusty windows and painting streaks across the worn floorboards.
He turned each page slowly, pausing every now and then when Edmond Dantès's story struck a chord too deep. A man betrayed, broken, and reborn with purpose, Cain couldn't help but wonder if that's where he was headed too. The thought lingered longer than he liked.
Later that day, he rode out with Mabel into the quiet stretch of woods beyond town. He set up bottles and cans atop a log, then stood a good few paces back, breathing steady as he drew his revolver. The shots cracked through the still air, one after another, not wild, not rushed, just precise. He wasn't chasing the thrill. He was chasing control.
When the smoke cleared, he holstered the gun and mounted Mabel again, letting her walk wherever she pleased. Sometimes he rode without a destination, letting the wind and open fields decide the path. The sound of her hooves on the dirt was enough to keep him company.
Days passed like that , quiet, simple, almost peaceful.
Until one morning, as Cain was helping Amos move a few crates of feed, a deputy rode up to the stable. The man's expression was tight, serious.
"Malloy's asking for you," he said. "Says it's urgent."
Cain wiped his hands on his coat, gave Amos a nod, and glanced toward the direction of the sheriff's office.
"Guess the quiet's over...."
To be continued.....