The midday sun blazed high over Valentine, casting short shadows and sweat on brows. The town buzzed with life: horses trotting, drunks stumbling, vendors shouting deals through the dusty air. Little Valentine knew no rest.
But something was different that day, something a few locals quickly noticed.
For the first time in weeks, the stable didn't have the boy who used to clean it every morning.
That day, Chris wasn't shoveling manure or tending horses. His worn-out boots were preparing to step onto another kind of ground — the road.
"All set, kid," Amos said, walking up while brushing dust from his hands. "A friend of mine's hauling a wagon to Rhodes. Taking the route through the Heartlands, agreed to drop you off along the way."
"Thanks a lot, boss," Chris replied, finishing lacing up his weathered boots.
"Ain't 'boss' anymore," the old man muttered, deadpan.
Chris gave a half-smile, a bit nervous.
Amos crossed his arms.
"You sure about this, son?"
"Honestly… no, I'm not." Chris smiled sheepishly. "But it's time I chased what's mine. There's a lot out there I want to see."
A vast, beautiful world, brimming with possibilities. So many places he already knew, but wanted to see again. This time not through a screen, but in person, in the flesh. So many hidden treasures, just waiting for him to go and find them...
The brutality of the world of men was unavoidable, that much he knew. Where he was, all the more so, considering the time and place. But he wanted to be able to face it. To handle the problems that came his way. To protect himself. Protect others, if he needed to.
He needed money. Power. Skill. He needed to live. To break free and chase his own freedom.
Risk was the price. Dangerous, but fair.
Chris stood up. He stomped the ground to set his boot firmly, adjusted his new holster, and checked the revolver. He slung the shoulder bag over his head — the one he'd bought with the last of his savings — now heavy with sparse provisions: a box of matches, a bit of food, and a few rounds of ammo. The holster, the bag, all of it had cost him every cent of his fifteen dollars.
But now he looked like a real cowboy. No longer a boy, either, but a man. One forged by hard work and the cold truth of a cynical world.
Amos gave him a long, silent look.
The old man pressed his lips together, like swallowing advice.
"Here, son." He reached into a nearby crate and pulled out an old Rodeo hat and a length of rope. "Ain't much, but it's something. Sun out there can be meaner than any beast."
"I'm real grateful... Amos." The name felt strange in Chris's mouth, but also... familiar. "For everything."
The hat fit perfectly, molding to his head like it had always belonged there. The rope on his belt made it look like he knew what he was doing, or at least that he wanted to.
With mind and body ready, he took the dirt road to the station. There, he'd catch the wagon.
From the wagon, the world.
…
A hollow thud woke Chris from a short nap. A few dry knocks on the wood, the signal that it was time.
"Here we are, boy," the driver said, eyes fixed ahead. "The Heartlands."
Chris lifted the hat from his face and stretched out his legs with a soft sigh. He peeked over the sacks of grain, raising his torso just enough.
The landscape opened before him like a green ocean. Vibrant plains rolled beneath the wind, dotted with towering rocks and gentle hills. It was beautiful. It was vast. And in its silence, it carried a kind of threat: the kind that reminded you anyone could vanish out here.
Still, he knew the place. A little different here and there, but enough to stir an old confidence. At least in that slice of the world, he knew where he was.
"Thanks for the ride!" he called, hopping down lightly, even as the wagon kept moving.
"Don't mention it," the man nodded. "Watch yourself out there."
The dust from the road still hung in the air as Chris found himself completely alone.
Back in the wild. Just him, the wind of the Heartlands… and whatever else might come.
He started walking down the narrow road, digging through his memory, scanning the area for something specific.
He knew there were things around — at least, in the game.
Atop one of the big rocks, there should've been some Pirate Rum and a little cash. A small treasure out of reach for now, so he kept moving. Took a fork in the road and climbed a hill with steady steps.
At the top, wild horses grazed under the clear sky. Tennessee Walkers, he thought. Maybe a few Mustangs. The time at the stable had taught him a thing or two.
Seeing them sparked... ideas. Dangerous ones.
But soon, he spotted his true target, one impossible not to recognize.
A nearly dead tree, beside a large boulder. Its branches were filled with hanging bottles, while others lay broken or forgotten on the stone below.
Chris drew his Cattleman from the holster.
He took the correct position, just as he remembered it. The right angle. A dark whiskey bottle hung highest on an upward branch.
He took a deep breath.
Every bullet mattered.
That revolver was his only protection out here. He couldn't afford to waste a single round.
Click. Boom.
The bullet missed clean, didn't even rattle the bottle.
"Damn..." he muttered to no one.
Chris kept his arm extended for a moment, as if the barrel could redeem the miss. Smoke rose slowly from the muzzle, carrying a dry silence.
He lowered the revolver. Holstered it. Stared at the bottle, swaying gently in the wind.
It wasn't just a bottle anymore. It was a cruel reminder that knowing where to aim… wasn't the same as knowing how to shoot.
He wiped his face. The stubble scratched his fingers, sweat dripped from his brow, and for a moment, he felt angry. Not at himself. At the world. At the new rules. At the weight of reality. There was still so much to learn.
But the anger faded as fast as it came. In its place, a cold thought:
"If I want to live here... I need to learn."
He drew the revolver again, gently spinning the cylinder, counting what was left.
Four bullets.
He stepped closer to the tree. Faced the bottle like it was a mortal enemy.
He aimed.
Click. Boom.
Click. Boom.
Two more misses.
Chris clenched his teeth, but stayed still. He adjusted the aim again. Rested his cheek on his shoulder. Closed one eye.
Click. Boom.
The bottle shattered. Glass flew in every direction, glittering in the sunlight. Something small rolled from inside, clinking softly against the stone.
A wide grin broke across Chris's face. He stepped forward, still a little stunned. Picked up the object and held it to the light.
A gold nugget, glimmering in the sun. Worth a good twenty-five dollars. More than he'd earned in weeks, now made in moments.
Slipping it into his bag, Chris was about to move on when something stopped him.
He turned back to the tree. Walked toward it, reaching for a specific bottle nestled in the fork of a branch.
The only one still full.
"Ginseng Elixir..." he recalled aloud, inspecting it.
In the game, it increased the character's life. Here... he doubted it. But still, something about the golden color and thick texture stirred his curiosity.
He placed the bottle in his bag, next to the nugget.
All he needed now was a bit more courage, to find out what that strange liquid actually did.