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The ideas he'd had earlier, soap, candy, pastries, toothbrushes, they weren't just flashes of inspiration. They were viable. The poker game had reminded him of a simple truth, which is that you don't win by throwing everything at once. You won by knowing when to act. When to fold. When to build the pot. And then went to strike in and gain the pot you built.
Maybe he'd start with pastries first. It was much easier and more familiar for him. Try baking a small batch of sweet rolls, for example. Then test the reaction. Maybe Jasper could also help him find out what folks liked. If it sold, he could fund the next venture, candies, or even toothbrushes and toothpaste.
Bit by bit.
By the time he reached his room again, the dream felt less like fantasy and more like a plan. He smiled, closing the door behind him, and slipped the lock shut.
Caleb then lay down on the mattress, its springs creaking softly beneath him. The walls of the hotel room were still, the only sound was the occasional muffled hoofbeat from the street below or the call of a drunk stumbling past.
But his mind didn't race. For once, it didn't whirl with second guessing or fears. It just laid out the next steps, like a map forming in the dark behind his eyelids. Soap, candy, toothbrushes… those could come later. Pastries first.
Small, manageable. Familiar. He let out a long, slow breath, as he closed his eyes, and let sleep take him.
The next day, the sunlight filtered in past the window, golden and warm on Caleb's face. He blinked a few times, groaned softly, then sat up with a quiet grunt, rubbing the back of his neck. The scent of dust and pine drifted through the slightly cracked window. Another day in Valentine's.
Caleb swung his legs off the bed, the wooden floor cold underfoot, and began his daily routine. Stretching first, arms overhead, a slow twist of his torso, joints cracking in protest. Then came calisthenics, jumping jacks, squats, and lunges. His muscles burned, but it was the good kind of burn, the reminder that he was alive and in control.
Push ups followed, knuckles pressing against the wood as he exhaled through each rep. One. Two. Three…
He counted out eighty before moving to sit ups, legs hooked under the foot of the bed. Eighty crunches later, he sat panting, shirt damp with sweat, heart thudding like a steady war drum. The exercise didn't just hone his body. It kept his mind sharp. Grounded.
Then he combed his fingers through his hair and strapped his gun belt and holsters in place. His Schofields sat snug on his hips, his iron twins, as he called them. He grabbed his hat, stepped into his boots, and made his way out.
The town was already stirring. Blacksmith's hammer clanged from across the main road, and the scent of food from the saloon drifted into the morning air. Caleb broke into a light jog, taking to the dirt roads for his morning run. He passed the stables, waving briefly at Mr. Levi, who was tending to a skittish mare.
He kept a steady pace, lungs drawing in the cool spring air, his boots kicking up dust behind him. As he looped around the sheriff's office, he caught voices drifting out of an open window.
"…I'm tellin' ya, they used an oil wagon. Just placed it right there in the middle of the track like they owned the damn rails."
"They didn't kill anyone?"
"No one. Beat the hell outta the guards, knocking them unconscious, some passengers as well, to teach them a lesson. But no killings. That's the thing. Worked fast, clean, efficient."
"Damn shame no one got a good look at 'em them."
"Not even the engineer. Said they wore sackcloth masks with slits so narrow you couldn't even guess their eye color. Moved like shadows. Like a ghost gang."
"The Law in Rhodes's got their hands tied, huh?"
"Hell, there ain't nothin' to tie to. No trace. No bootprints. No shells. Even the wagon was just left behind there, and the law surely wouldn't go investigate Cornwall refinery, it would be like telling Leviticus Cornwall one of his workers was involved in the robbery."
Caleb jogged past, keeping his face neutral, expression unreadable. The conversation behind him continued, mixing into the clamor of morning bustle. But he'd heard enough. Satisfaction pulsed behind his calm mask.
No names. No identities. No clues. No bodies.
"We did good," he thought. Real good.
They were just like ghosts, at least for now, since he got a nagging feeling that the Pinkertons would head there to investigate, and find out slowly who was involved in the robbery.
After returning to the hotel, Caleb dropped 25 cents at the counter and requested a hot bath. The water was ready in ten minutes, steaming and scented faintly with lye and pine oil. He scrubbed off the morning sweat and the lingering dust from his run, soaking until the ache in his shoulders dulled into a mellow hum.
By the time he dressed and rearmed himself, he felt refreshed and focused.
He retrieved his rifles and shotgun from his room. The Springfield slung over one shoulder, the Lancaster over the other. The pump action shotgun was strapped across his back horizontally, and his Schofields still nestled in their holsters like loyal hounds. It was time to tend to his tools.
The bell above the door jingled as Caleb stepped inside. The familiar scent of gun oil, metal, and powder welcomed him like an old friend.
"Morning, Caleb," Mr. Dalton said, glancing up from behind the counter where he was polishing the barrel of a rolling block rifle. "You're armed to the teeth this morning."
"Need some upgrades for these beauties," Caleb replied with a half smile. "Improved rifling on all of em, iron sights for the Schofields, extended barrel for the shotgun, and scopes, short range for the Lancaster, medium for the Springfield"
Mr. Dalton raised his eyebrow and whistled. "That's a pricey list. You got the money for all of that, I take it?"
"Actually, I got something else in mind," Caleb said. He stepped forward and laid the guns across the counter. "What if I did it myself? I know my way around metal and machinery. Let me do the work, under your supervision, of course, and I'll pay half price on each part I use."
Mr. Dalton was surprised when he heard that. "You know gunsmithing, Caleb?"
"Just the basics really, something that my pa taught," Caleb said with a grin, lying without blinking his eyes. "But I learn quick. Figured it'd save you labor, and I get to improve my skill."
Mr. Dalton rubbed his chin, then shrugged. "Hell, why not? Long as you don't blow my shop up."
The hours passed quietly, the occasional whir of a grindstone, the metallic clink of a chisel, and the hiss of steam from boiling water used to temper the metal. Caleb rolled up his sleeves and got to work.
He started with the Schofields, fitting them each with precision iron sights, aligning them so they'd give him better draw and fire accuracy in closer engagements, and then improving their rifling. He also took extra care not to scratch the polished frames, cleaning and oiling each joint before reassembly.
Next came the Pump Action Shotgun. He extended the barrel slightly, giving it a tighter spread and more punch at range, improving its rifling, and added a simple iron sight. The work required focus and dexterity, but Caleb felt himself settling into it naturally.
Then the Lancaster Repeater. He carefully placed the short range scope beside the standard sight, making it an ideal weapon that could be used for medium and close encounters. The scope was fixed tightly, calibrated to shift with the recoil.
Finally, the Springfield. He also does the same as in his Lancaster, where the medium range scope was placed beside the default sight, making the rifle better suited to be used for sharpshooting. Then he carefully rifled the barrel, using Dalton's custom lathe and bore polish kit.
By the time he was finished, his hands were black with oil and soot, but his guns looked and felt transformed, becoming much deadlier than they were previously.
To the side, Mr. Dalton inspected the guns and then nodded approvingly. "Not bad work, Caleb. For a greenhorn."
Caleb wiped his hands on a rag. "How much do I owe you?"
"For the parts? 68 dollars in total. Normally, it'd be 167 dollars with labor."
Caleb handed over the cash without complaint after taking it out from his satchel. The experience he gained for his crafting skill and the upgrades for his guns were worth every penny he spent.
"Oh, also," Mr. Dalton added after receiving the money from Caleb, "if you're ever thinkin' of smithing on the side, I could use a hand sometimes. Just say the word."
"Appreciate it, Mr. Dalton," Caleb said. "Might take you up on that." After that, he stepped out into the warm afternoon sun of Valentine.
Caleb Thorne walked at a steady pace back toward the hotel, his boots striking the packed dirt of Valentine's main street with quiet resolve. The warm afternoon sun glinted off his newly tuned firearms, his Springfield, Lancaster, and Pumped Action now gleamed under the sun like polished tools of justice.
But more than the hardware, his mind was shifting, simmering with thoughts of what to do next. He had upgraded his tools, fine tuned his body with a run, cleaned himself in a bath, and now, his stomach was grumbling with the desire for a proper meal.
He cut left toward the saloon.
The air inside was warm and thick with the aroma of alcohol, tobacco, and sizzling meat. A fiddler plucked at a cheerful tune in the corner, while a pair of drunks loudly debated who'd win in a fistfight, a man named Jeremiah Shaw or a grizzly bear.
Caleb approached the bar and nodded at the barkeep.
"Fried lamb chop and a bottle of beer," he said, placing a 5 dollar bill and a quarter on the counter.
Mr. Douglas took the money without a word. A few minutes later, Caleb was seated at a table near the window, steam rising from the plate before him. The beer was cold, the lamb crisp and seasoned, and the fat rendered beautifully. As he ate, he savored each bite in silence, letting his mind wander.
Then he heard it.
"…found another one this morning," said a gravelly voice two tables over. "Just like the others. The body was torn up really badly. Said he was missing his… well, parts. You know."
"Jesus Christ," muttered another. "Where'd they find this one?"
"Out by Caliban's Seat. Same way, they found that boy last spring. No tracks. No prints. Just a mangled corpse and that strange note pinned to a tree nearby."
"A note again? What'd it say?"
"Same as always, 'Look upon my works and despair.'"
Caleb froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. The voices faded beneath a sharp ping in his skull, his Past Life Memory skill activated, flooding his consciousness with vivid recollections from his previous life.
Mr. Edmund Lowry Jr., A name etched into his memory with bile. A name synonymous with horror.
The serial killer who had haunted the territory for years, preying on the lonely, the forgotten, the unloved. He had left no pattern but plenty of clues, scraps of maps hidden in grotesque locations, each leading to his lair, Lucky's Cabin, south of Valentine.
In the game, Caleb had solved the mystery, tracked the killer, found his hideout, and was ambushed by the maniac, only to hand him over to Sheriff Malloy after knocking him out and receive a mere twenty dollars for the ordeal which included saving Sherif Malloy life. He'd been furious then. In a world of outlaws and scum, Edmund had felt like something… worse. Something inhuman.
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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)
Money: 673 dollars and 43 cents
Bank: 320 dollars, 4 gold bars, a large bag of jewelry, and 3 gold nuggets