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Caleb nodded thoughtfully as he heard what Strauss said. It was true enough. He then glanced over at the rest of the camp, gauging if anyone was paying attention, before turning back to look at Strauss. "You got an idea where I might find the man to collect his debt?"
Strauss was already flipping through his notes. "Yes. Down southwest of Valentine. On the road toward Cumberland Falls. His ranch is just off the main trail. You can't miss it, the most pitiful ranch in the territory"
Caleb gave a casual nod, though he didn't need the directions. His map function had already saved the place from a prior scouting ride. He'd even passed the small ranch once on his way to check a hunting site near the falls.
The place was easy to miss if you weren't looking for it, a weather beaten house, barely holding together, fields mostly fallow, the fence half rotted.
"Alright," Caleb said, tipping his hat. "I'll go have a word with the man."
"Good luck, Mr. Thorne," Strauss said coolly, already returning to his ledgers.
Caleb turned without another word and walked back toward Morgan. His mind churned like river water after a storm.
He knew what was waiting for him. The real danger wasn't a gun or a knife, it was microscopic, airborne, and slow to kill. But kill it would.
He reached Morgan and untied her reins. "We got a delicate one ahead of us," he murmured, patting her neck. "No bullets. No physical altercation. No blood. But one wrong breath, and we're lookin' at a slow death."
He mounted up and turned her south. With a gentle kick, they left Horseshoe Overlook behind, heading back down the ridge trail toward Valentine.
The sky above was clear, the morning sun rising higher, burning off the mist that still clung to the tree line. Birds chirped overhead, and Caleb's ears caught the far-off rustle of deer bounding through the brush. Despite the beauty around him, his thoughts were steel-sharp and locked on the task.
He remembered clearly, In the game, Arthur's interaction with Downes had been brief but brutal, an act of annoyance more than cruelty. But it was that moment that changed the trajectory of Arthur's life.
If only it wouldn't lead to his death and there was a cure for tuberculosis at this point of time, Caleb would let it happen as this illness was the one who molded Arthur into the real him. As he was faced with his own mortality which began to change his perception and outlook on life, making him the good man he truly was.
As Morgan's hooves pounded rhythmically over packed dirt and shallow mud, Caleb reached into his saddlebag and pulled out his bandana. He tied it snug across his mouth and nose, pulling his hat lower over his brow.
"Step one," he muttered. "Don't breathe the same air."
He had no plan to beat Thomas. The man was already dying, coughing up his life a little more each day. His retribution was already in motion. What good would a punch do, except speed up the inevitable and not let the man suffer first?
By the time Caleb reached the outskirts of the Downes ranch, the sun was directly overhead, and he slowed Morgan to a trot, keeping his eyes forward.
The ranch came into view as a dilapidated farmhouse with peeling paint, a barn missing half its roof, and a few scrawny chickens pecking at the dirt.
A gaunt man in threadbare clothes knelt in a patch of wilted vegetables around gathered fence post working a hoe into the soil, his body wracked by violent coughs.
The one and only Thomas Downes.
Caleb dismounted a good twenty paces away, keeping his distance. Then he spoke, keeping his voice calm. "Mr. Downes."
Hearing his name being called, The man froze. The Downes slowly looked up, his sunken eyes widening at the sight of an armed stranger.
"Can I help you, mister?" Thomas rasped, wiping his mouth with a stained handkerchief.
Caleb took a few steps closer but maintained at least ten feet of distance. "You probably know why I'm here. You owe money to Mr. Leopold Strauss. 115 dollars."
Thomas's face grimaced and went pale. "I… I was afraid of that."
Caleb hearing that said evenly. "He says you've had plenty of time to pay."
Thomas's face went even paler and coughed again, harder this time. When he recovered, his voice was weaker. "I don't have it. I, my family's got nothin'. I gave too much away. I thought I was doin' God's work, helpin' people. But now with the sickness, and the farm failing..."His voice trailed off into another coughing fit.
Caleb didn't speak right away. He took in the man's pale skin, the sweat on his brow, the tremble in his hands. Thomas was a dying man, and he knew it.
"I ain't gonna beat you," Caleb said finally, his voice firm. "It'd just kill you faster."
Thomas blinked, confused. "But… aren't you supposed to…?"
Caleb shook his head. "You'll pay in your own way, Mr. Downes. And I got no intention of taking your life for a sum of 115 dollars. Keep your charity. Keep your ragged breath. But know this, your choices put your family in this hole. And if you care about them at all, you'll find a way to settle your debts before it gets worse for them when you suddenly leave this world."
Thomas swallowed, clearly too stunned to reply.
Caleb turned, walking back toward Morgan.
Just before he mounted, he called back over his shoulder. "I'll tell Mr. Strauss you ain't got it. For now. But someone else might come next and they won't be as kind."
Thomas hearing that woke up and called after him, "Who are you, mister?"
Caleb didn't look back. "Nobody important."
The ride back to camp was quiet. Caleb didn't push Morgan too hard, letting her set a gentle pace. As he entered through the tree groves and spotted the smoke of camp, he exhaled deeply and removed the bandana, stuffing it into his satchel.
He dismounted, hitched Morhan, and approached Strauss, who looked up from his ledger expectantly.
"Well? You got the money, Mr. Throne?" the man asked.
Caleb shrugged and shook his head. "He's got nothing. Sick as a dog and twice as poor, didn't have any valuables to take. Said he's still tryin. I didn't beat him. Thought you'd rather a man eventually pay you than die with nothing and we just lose our money."
Strauss frowned, but only for a moment. "Fine. I suppose your approach might yield results later. But we can't afford too much sympathy, Mr. Thorne."
"I ain't in the business of mercy, rest easy, Herr Strauss," Caleb replied. "Just ain't in the business of wasting our time and money on corpses either."
Strauss mulled it over and then gave a reluctant nod, because what Caleb said was true, dead men didn't pay debts. "Alright, keep me updated if anything changes."
Caleb nodded his head and promised Strauss, "I'll keep you up to date. I'll swing by the Downes ranch again soon. Maybe the man'll find a way, or maybe his widow will."
Strauss didn't seem particularly moved by the morbid implication, but he gave a short nod before returning to scribbling in his ledger. Caleb turned and walked away, leaving the smell of Strauss's stale cologne and pipe smoke behind.
His stomach gave a low grumble, reminding him he hadn't eaten since the morning coffee and steak. before riding out. As he made his way through the camp, he caught the familiar scent of Pearson's cooking wafting in the warm afternoon air.
The thick, greasy aroma of stew drifted across the clearing, mixing with the scent of pine and dust. Pearson's wagon was cluttered as always, piles of tin plates, sacks of potatoes, hanging game, and a wide iron cauldron bubbling over a modest fire.
Caleb grabbed a dented tin bowl from the ground beside the cauldron and gave it a shake to dust out a few pine needles and a bug.
He then took the wooden ladle from the hook above the cauldron and gave the thick stew a stir before scooping out several hearty spoonfuls into his bowl. Chunks of salted beef, a few soggy carrots, and some mystery greens floated on the surface of the greasy broth.
Replacing the ladle, he raised the bowl to his lips and blew gently, letting the steam drift off as he stood near the edge of the wagon, eating quietly. A spoonful passed his lips, it was good and cooked well, but filling. He took another mouthful when his eyes caught movement to his left.
Kieran was crouched near the washbasin by the laundry line, scrubbing at dishes with a sour expression, his sleeves rolled up and a streak of soap on his cheek. The former O'Driscoll was doing his best to prove his worth, though most of the gang barely acknowledged him unless it was to mock or threaten.
Caleb smirked as he called out in a teasing tone, "Well, if it ain't Mr. Duffy himself, our resident former O'Driscoll."
Kieran froze mid scrub. He turned slowly, looking back at Caleb with narrowed eyes. "I've told you a dozen times, mister, I ain't no O'Driscoll. Not anymore. I'm with the Van der Linde gang now, same as you!"
Caleb chuckled and shook his head as he took another spoonful of stew. "Yeah, I'm not sure Dutch would stamp that on your name just yet. But… I gotta admit, you've been pulling your weight. Cleaning up, tending the horses, taking orders without whining. Looks like maybe having you around ain't the worst thing after all."
Kieran blinked, caught off guard. He straightened up and opened his mouth, probably to deliver another angry rebuttal, but stopped short. Caleb's words weren't mocking. They weren't warm exactly, but they carried something unexpected, which is fairness.
Except for Mary-Beth's occasional kindness, no one in camp had spoken to him without a sneer, a threat, or a joke at his expense. Even his life saving favor on Arthur and his information about Colm's hideout hadn't earned him much goodwill.
"That's… that's the kindest word anyone here's said to me since I got here," Kieran muttered. "Thanks, mister."
Caleb shrugged, swallowing another bite of stew. "Just telling it how I see it, Mr. Duffy. And you can stop calling me 'mister.' Caleb's fine. We're in the same gang now. Least we can do is be civil until there's a reason not to be."
A quiet moment passed. The words carried an unspoken edge, a warning that civility had its limits. But to Kieran, it was more than he'd gotten from anyone else. He nodded again, more firmly this time. "Alright then… Caleb. You can call me Kieran."
Before Caleb could say more, he saw Arthur passing by. The older man walked with a bit more heaviness than usual, heading toward his tent wagon. Something in his posture caught Caleb's eye, shoulders low, boots dragging slightly in the dirt.
Caleb tilted his head, curious, and finished the last spoonful of his stew before setting the bowl down in the washbasin Kieran had just rinsed out.
"I'll catch you later, Kieran," he said, already turning toward Arthur.
Kieran gave a simple wave, returning to his chores as Caleb walked after the gang's gruff enforcer. He stopped in his tracks a few feet from Arthur's tent when he saw him pick up a letter from the small table just outside. Arthur's fingers trembled slightly as he unfolded the page, his eyes scanning over the inked words.
Then Caleb saw it, the shift in Arthur's expression. It was subtle at first, but then it was like a flood hit Arthur's face, it shows a flash of sorrow, a furrow of pain, a clench of the jaw that screamed of old regrets. There was love in his eyes, buried deep beneath anger and confusion. Caleb didn't need to ask who the letter was from, it was from Ms. Mary Linton.
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Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 6/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 5/10
- Luck: 6/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 2)
- Rifle (Lvl 2)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 2)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 1)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 2)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 2)
- Poker (Lvl 2)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 1)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 1)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 1)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 0)
- Crafting (Lv1)
- Persuasion (Lvl 2)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
Money: 965 dollars and 18 cents
Bank: 320 dollars, 4 gold bars, a large bag of jewelry, and 3 gold nuggets