Davey rode his horse out of the inn, heading first to the stables to swap out his saddle bags for a top-tier set. Then he made his way to the barber for a proper grooming, getting his hair and beard neatly trimmed.
The transformation was striking. His once scruffy, rough-around-the-edges look was gone, replaced by a clean, refined image. With his natural blond hair, Davey had always been a handsome man. In truth, whether it was Arthur, Dutch, Hosea, or the Callander brothers, each was quite striking in his own right.
At camp, Hosea kept a photograph of himself, Dutch, and Arthur—a trio whose looks could have graced a portrait in a city gallery. Even though Davey only appeared briefly in the game, his sharp profile alone hinted at a natural charm.
Leaving the barbershop, Davey continued to the tailor.
While Valentine lacked barbers and tailors in the game, the real-world version of this prosperous ranching town certainly had them. Inside the shop, Davey spent twenty-two dollars on a gentleman's suit—something only the upper class would wear.
Naturally, no gentleman was complete without a walking stick.
It was a custom that had originated among European nobles and had since become fashionable among the wealthy elite of the Union. The stick wasn't cheap—five dollars for a carved wooden one without ivory or gemstone inlays. He also purchased a finely crafted calfskin briefcase for three dollars.
As the saying goes, a man is judged by his clothes, a horse by its saddle. Looks are three parts nature and seven parts presentation.
Now, Davey looked every inch a man of success.
The original Davey had never been to school, but his past self—Logan Song—had actually graduated from college. Even if it was a second-rate institution, by the standards of the late nineteenth century, that still made him an intellectual.
The rough aura of an outlaw was gone. What remained was the refined air of an educated man.
Even his own brother, Mac Callander, would probably have doubted his eyes upon seeing him now.
...
Davey then rode to the Valentine Post Office and Train Station.
There, he paid off the bounties placed on both himself and the counterfeit medicine peddler, Benedict Allbright.
Paying a bounty stopped bounty hunters from pursuing the target—a quirk of Western justice born from its era.
With limited federal law enforcement and differing state laws across the Union, bounty hunting had become a distinct profession. Anyone could be a bounty hunter, but they didn't serve just anyone.
Only the Bounty Hunters' Guild could issue official targets, and they typically worked for the federal government.
In the West, everything had a price. If you paid the Guild enough, they'd cancel a bounty—what people called a ransom—usually double the original reward.
Davey's bounty, like Allbright's, stood at fifty dollars—a steep sum. Most wanted posters offered only a few dollars, maybe a dozen, sometimes mere cents.
Of course, that only applied to Guild bounties. Private contracts paid much more.
Take Cornwall, for example—he'd paid the Pinkertons twenty thousand dollars for a job, with Dutch Van der Linde valued at five thousand, Arthur at two thousand, and each of the Callander brothers at three thousand.
In the game's storyline, Arthur's bounty later rises to five thousand because the Callander brothers are dead. But in this version, since the brothers still lived, their names topped the list instead.
Private contracts like these didn't go through the Guild. Even if a bounty hunter captured Davey, the Guild wouldn't pay a cent; instead, he'd be handed to the Pinkerton Detective Agency for the reward.
"Sir, I'd like a first-class ticket to Bacchus Station—and a horse ticket as well."
Davey spoke with a calm, polite smile. His tailored suit, elegant walking stick, top hat, and leather briefcase—all paired with his intellectual poise—earned him instant respect from the station staff.
"Good day, sir," the clerk said warmly. "That will be thirty-five dollars. We'll see that your horse is properly attended to."
In the game, trains were little more than a few crude cars, with horses magically keeping pace beside them. But in the real West, luxury carriages for the wealthy were common, along with livestock cars for horses. Naturally, first-class tickets cost more than twice as much as standard fares.
Davey handed over thirty-five dollars, then added a one-dollar coin.
"Thank you for your generosity, sir," the attendant said with renewed enthusiasm. "The train departs in thirty minutes. Please, have a seat by the tables—we'll bring you complimentary snacks and juice."
The staff rarely offered such perks unprompted; they were reserved for first-class passengers, but tips had a way of opening doors.
For Davey, generosity came easily—and a little goodwill never hurt in the West.
...
(40 Chapters Ahead)
p@treon com / GhostParser