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Arthur's head snapped in the direction Caleb indicated, his eyes narrowing as he followed the line of Caleb's outstretched arm. "You're right," he murmured, a hint of urgency entering his voice. "Let's go check it out." Without hesitation, the three men wheeled their horses around and spurred them into a trot, heading north across the rolling terrain toward the distant plume of smoke.
As they rode across the plains, the warm afternoon sun beat down on their backs, glinting off their saddles and tack. The air was dry and filled with the faint scent of grass and dust, mingled now with the acrid, unmistakable scent of smoke drifting from the north.
Caleb, his sharp eyes locked on the distant plume, felt his heart quicken, not just from the impending confrontation, but from the rush of life in this brutal world that had become his new home.
Charles, who was riding slightly ahead on his sturdy horse, turned his head slightly and called back over the rhythmic thudding of hooves, his voice raised so they could hear, "Bastards… just killing for fun."
Arthur, gripping his reins with a practiced ease, gave a grunt and called back, "You think we can talk, Charles?"
Charles shot a look over his shoulder, a flicker of frustration in his eyes. *I didn't kill for fun," he said firmly. "I kill when I need to."
Caleb, riding on Arthur's right, nodded and added in his own voice, calm but edged with steel, "Yeah. I also don't kill for fun. I kill people who deserve it, and also to survive. And until now, I've never killed innocent people."
Arthur snorted softly, his lips pulling into a wry, knowing smile as he turned his head briefly toward Caleb. "Yeah, sure, Caleb. I also kill to survive… and those who deserve it. But we can't know for sure if they deserve it or not sometimes. But we kill anyway."
Caleb just smiled faintly, a warmth spreading through his chest, not from Arthur's words, but from the quiet satisfaction of knowing his own truth.
In his old world, before this strange and impossible transmigration into the world of Red Dead Redemption 2, he'd never even been in a real fight, let alone taken a life.
Here, though… here was different. And every man he'd put in the dirt so far had been a bandit, a killer, an outlaw whose crimes he knew, both from the game and from the word of locals. It didn't make it easy, but it made it bearable.
They rode in companionable silence after that, the mood heavy, as the three figures moved across the rolling plain, weaving between low rocky hills and stretches of tall grass. The smoke was closer now, dark and thick, and the scent of burnt hide mixed with the metallic stench of death hit their nostrils.
Suddenly, Charles raised himself slightly in his saddle, eyes narrowing. He pointed ahead, urgency cracking his voice. "Look! More dead bison, it has to be them. Come on!"
Without waiting, Charles spurred his horse forward, leaving Arthur and Caleb scrambling to match his pace.
"Wait up!" Arthur shouted, his voice half annoyed, half laughing, as he and Caleb urged their horses to gallop, hooves pounding over hard packed earth.
They raced across the ground, the wind whipping at their clothes and hair, past two more carcasses, massive bison lying crumpled and lifeless, their dark eyes wide and empty, flies already buzzing thick in the air.
Caleb grimaced as they passed, the pit of his stomach tightening at the waste. Bison were majestic creatures, and their slaughter like this felt like a senseless wound on the land.
Turning slightly right, they ascended a small hill. Rocks jutted from the earth on their right, casting sharp shadows in the fading afternoon sun.
As they reached the top, the scene below came into view, a crude camp, a small fire crackling at its center, with two men seated nearby, their rifles resting lazily across their knees.
Charles was the first to swing down from his saddle, his boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. Without hesitation, he strode forward, tension radiating from his tall frame. Arthur followed next, then Caleb, his fingers twitching near his holster, the weight of his revolver a familiar reassurance at his side.
As they approached, Charles' voice cut through the still air, sharp and demanding. "Did you fools the one shoot those bison?!"
One of the men, sitting on the left with a scraggly beard and narrow eyes, looked up with an annoyed sneer. "What's your problem?"
Charles' voice rose slightly, his frustration evident. "I said, did you fools the one shoot those bison?!"
The man on the right stood abruptly, knocking over a tin cup near the fire. His face was hard and sunburnt, and his eyes glinted with the cold arrogance of a man used to taking what he wanted. "Calm down, you black or red bastard, whatever the fuck you are," he said, his lip curling.
His companion, emboldened, rose as well.
Charles took a step closer, his voice now hard and edged with barely contained fury. "Did you shoot them?!"
The man on the right smirked. "Yes, we did! We shoot them like we'll shoot you and your friends too if you don't get the hell outta here!"
The other man snickered, his hand drifting a little too close to his rifle. "What's it to you, huh? What's your business if we shot those bison?"
For a heartbeat, the world held still, the crackling of the fire, the buzz of flies, the quiet creak of leather as Arthur shifted on his feet.
Then, with a speed and finality that shocked even the two hardened outlaws, Charles drew his sawed-off shotgun and fired.
The blast echoed across the plain like a thunderclap.
The man on the right's head erupted in a spray of red, his body crumpling to the ground in a lifeless heap, blood and what's inside of the man's head pooling into the dry dirt.
"Is that business of mine?!" Charles roared, his voice reverberating with righteous anger.
Arthur jerked slightly, his brows shooting up in surprise, while the remaining outlaw stumbled backward, his hands raised in a desperate, trembling plea.
"Good God, you're crazy! Look, I, I got a family… a family. So please, don't shoot me!"
Caleb wasn't surprised, not really. He'd seen Charles angry in the game before, but seeing it here, in flesh and blood, was something entirely different. There was a ferocity to Charles in person, a storm that could break loose in an instant, and Caleb felt a shiver pass down his spine.
Arthur raised a hand slightly, his voice measured. "Charles… that's enough. Stand back, let me get some answers for you."
Caleb stepped forward, his eyes cold as winter ice, stopping Arthur from approaching the man. "Wait, Arthur. Let me be the one to do it, I haven't done much to help anyway."
Hearing that, Arthur slowly nodded his head and took a step back, his hand falling away from his holster. His eyes lingered on Caleb for a moment, gauging the younger man with an unreadable look before he gave a slight nod, as if silently giving his blessing. "Alright, Caleb," Arthur murmured, "he's yours."
Caleb stepped forward deliberately, boots crunching over the dry dirt. His face was calm, the kind of calm that came from a quiet, simmering determination rather than indifference.
The trembling man's eyes widened as Caleb crouched in front of him, close enough that their breaths mixed in the warm air. With a slow, deliberate motion, Caleb drew his knife, a simple, sturdy hunting blade, and, without a word, pressed the cold steel against the man's crotch.
"If you still want to have your manhood," Caleb said softly, his voice even and almost conversational, "you better answer me, mister. Why are you killing the bison and leaving them to rot?"
The man's face twisted with panic, his mouth working soundlessly for a moment before he managed to choke out, "I, I don't know what you're talking about!"
Caleb let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly, his eyes never leaving the man's. "Wrong answer."
The knife moved. Not to the throat. Not to the chest. Instead, Caleb dragged it slowly, deliberately along the outlaw's thigh, just deep enough to break the skin and unleash a thin rivulet of blood. The man screamed, a high, panicked sound, jerking against the ground as if he could writhe away from the blade.
Arthur winced slightly, crossing his arms as he stood back, watching. Charles, standing stiffly to Arthur's left, showed no such restraint, his eyes were hard, his jaw clenched, fists curled at his sides.
Caleb stopped the knife, pressing it lightly against the man's leg. His voice remained calm, but there was an edge now, sharp as the blade itself. "Come on, mister. You better tell us truthfully. Because if you don't—" he gave the knife a slight nudge, just enough to make the man flinch "—this blade's going somewhere a lot worse next."
The man squeezed his eyes shut, his body trembling, a whimper escaping his throat. For a moment, it seemed like he might hold out.
But then Caleb leaned just a little closer, and the pressure of the knife on the already bleeding thigh deepened.
Another scream tore from the outlaw's throat.
"Alright! Alright!" he gasped, his words tumbling over one another in a desperate rush. "It, it wasn't about the meat or the hides! It was to make it look like the Indians did it! That's all! Please, please, I swear!"
Charles let out a sharp, harsh sound, half growl, half curse, and took a step forward, his boots kicking up dust. "Kill the bastard, Caleb," he barked, his voice raw with fury. "Kill him!"
The man's eyes flew wide open, his face pale and streaked with sweat. "No! Please! Don't kill me!" he wailed, his voice cracking, terror rising like a wave. "I got a family! Please, I'm begging you!"
Caleb remained crouched, breathing steadily. His fingers tightened around the handle of the knife, and for a long moment, he said nothing.
The image of the man's family flashed through Caleb's mind unbidden, a woman, maybe a couple of children, waiting somewhere, not knowing what their husband and father really did when he was away.
Caleb's lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to kill this man, God, he wanted to, for the bison, for the land, for Charles and all the people who would pay for this senseless act. But another part of him, a part shaped by memories from his old world, held him back.
With a low exhale, Caleb rose to his feet, slipping the knife back into its sheath. "Get out of here," he said flatly.
The man blinked up at him, confusion flickering through his terror. "W-what?"
"I said, get out of here," Caleb repeated, his voice hardening. "Run. Don't look back."
"Please, don't shoot me, mister!" the man stammered, scrambling backward on his hands and knees. "I, I got a family—"
Arthur, watching from a few steps away, lifted a hand and gestured sharply toward the horizon. "Go on, get," he said, his voice rough but not unkind. "Before I change my mind."
The man didn't need to be told again. He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over himself as he bolted, his footsteps kicking up a trail of dust as he vanished into the distance.
Charles let out a disgusted huff, turning sharply toward Caleb and Arthur, his eyes flashing with frustration. "Why the hell did you let him go?!" he demanded, voice rising. "You heard what he said! He was just killing for fun, which killed many families of my people! And you let him run?!"
Caleb met Charles' eyes evenly, his shoulders squared. "I wanted to kill him," Caleb admitted, his voice low and calm. "God knows I wanted to. But I kept thinking about the family he said he had. About the people who'd be left behind if I gutted him here and now. Sometimes…" He drew in a breath, exhaling slowly. "Sometimes revenge isn't the answer, Charles."
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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 1)
- 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)
Money: 731 dollars and 61 cents
Bank: 40 dollars, 2 gold bars, a large bag of jewelry, and 3 gold nuggets