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One by one, the gang dismounted. Leather creaked, weapons clinked as rifles were shifted and revolvers checked. Caleb swung down from Morgan, patting her neck once. "Stay sharp, girl," he whispered. The horse snorted, as if in answer, and then tied him to a low branch near the wall.
They gathered at the left side of the stone gate wall forming around Dutch, like a pack of wolves ready to strike. Caleb's fingers itched for his weapons, the weight of the repeater and the shotgun a solid, comforting promise of violence. The evening air was thick with the smell of grass and distant gun oil.
Dutch's eyes found John, whose face was a mask of pure, undiluted fury. "John," Dutch said, his voice softening just a fraction ashen patted him on the shoulder. "You alright, son?"
John's jaw was clenched so tight it looked like his teeth might crack. "Like I said before, I'm fine, Dutch. I'm just gonna rain bullets down on these sons of bitches for takin' my boy."
Dutch nodded grimly, with a bit of satisfaction in his eye. "That you will son." He drew his own ornate revolver, the polished metal gleaming in the fading twilight.
"Come on, then. Let's get this done." His voice was low but sharp, a blade cutting through the group. "Follow my lead."
And so they did.
Dutch led the way, stepping past the stone wall with a predator's grace. The others fell in behind him, forming a single, menacing line that advanced up the long path toward the grand, columned manor. It was a show of force, a statement. The house loomed large in the distance, pale wood and shadowed windows watching them like a great predator.
The formation formed naturally. Dutch strode in the middle, tall and imposing, Hosea at his right shoulder, Arthur at his left. Caleb walked just beside Arthur, his own eyes scanning ahead, with Charles, Sadie, and Lenny following right to his left. To Hosea's right came John, Bill, Javier, and Sean, each brimming with violent energy in their own way.
It was eerie, how much it felt like the very scene Caleb remembered from the game. The moment before the firestorm. The calm before Dutch shattered all restraint.
"This inbred family," Dutch spat as they walked, their boots crunching in unison on the gravel, "they think they can mess with us? No, no, I don't think so." His voice was a low, venomous thing. "Who the hell steals a goddamn boy?"
Hosea's voice cut through the tension, cool and sharp. "There they are."
And there they were. As if summoned by their hatred, the Braithwaite men began to pour out of the manor's front door and onto the wide veranda. They were a ragged, ugly and mean looking bunch, clutching rifles and shotguns, their faces set in permanent scowls. They fanned out, forming a ragged defensive line against the eleven avengers walking so deliberately toward them on the porch, yard, and second floor.
The sight of them, fanning out like vultures waiting for scraps, made the knot in Caleb's stomach twist tighter. He flexed both of his hand near the grip of his navy revolvers, ready.
The tension was a physical force, pressing in on them from the grand, decaying manor. They advanced as one, a line of grim resolve cutting through the manicured lawn. When they were close enough to see the sneers on the faces of the three Braithwaite men standing defiantly in the center of the yard, Dutch's voice shattered the silence.
"Get down here now!" Dutch bellowed, his tone wild with venom. "You inbred trash!"
The three Braithwaite men stiffened, eyes narrowing, but didn't move an inch.
When the gang reached the edge of the yard, the one in the center barked back, "What the hell do you boys want?" His accent was thick, his voice hoarse, yet full of defiance.
The gang slowed their march all at once, boots crunching to a halt. But Dutch kept walking. He moved alone, out ahead, his steps deliberate, a wolf among dogs.
John lurched forward, fury boiling over, his hand tightening on his gun. "I'm goin' with him—"
But Hosea's hand shot out, fingers like a vice on John's arm. "Easy, John," Hosea said firmly, his tone the only calm note in a storm of rage.
John's nostrils flared, his jaw working. For a heartbeat it seemed he'd fight Hosea off. But finally, reluctantly, he forced himself back in line, falling in with the others.
The gang stood several steps behind Dutch, watching like tethered hounds as their leader approached the enemy.
Dutch stopped within a few paces of the man in the center. His revolver gleamed faintly in his hand, not quite raised, but ready. His eyes bored into the Braithwaite's with cold fire. "You know why we're here. We've come for the boy."
The Braithwaite spat to the side, a thick glob of tobacco hitting the dirt with disdain. His lip curled into a sneer. "Shouldn't have messed with our family business, now should ya? You brought this on yourselves, blowin' up our lands and our outbuildings. That's on you."
A ripple of anger went through the gang. Bill cracked his neck, Javier's fingers twitched near his pistols, and John let out a low growl. But they held. They waited for the signal.
Caleb's hands, however, were already in motion. He drew both of his Navy revolvers, the worn, cold grips fitting perfectly in his palms. He didn't aim, just held them low, his thumbs resting on the hammers. He knew this fragile peace was a lie.
Dutch's knuckles whitened around the handle of his revolver. His jaw flexed as he kept his tone measured, just barely. "Whatever complaints or problems you think you got with us, alleged or otherwise, that's a boy you've taken. That is not how decent people do things. Hand him over."
The man didn't flinch. He leaned forward slightly and spat again, this time landing the thick wad right in front of Dutch's boots.
"Down here on Braithwaite land, that's exactly how we handle things," the man snarled. "And we ain't the ones who started it. You boys—" his eyes swept the line, lingering on the women with a sneer "—and gal, you're the ones who stirred up hornets where you didn't belong. We just gave you a little taste of what happens to troublemakers 'round here."
Then he spread his arms wide, mock hospitality dripping from every word. "So welcome to the show."
A nasty chuckle escaped his lips, and it spread like wildfire through the Braithwaite ranks. Dozens of men laughed with him, the sound an ugly, mocking chorus.
Dutch's face shifted, subtle but unmistakable. The calm storm broke, lightning cracked in his eyes. His voice dropped an octave, the calm veneer shattering into fury. "Since we can't have a civilized conversation about such a serious matter…" His words trembled with rage. "…then you leave us no choice."
The movement was a blur. His right arm came up, the revolver barking once. The center man's chuckle died in his throat as the bullet struck him square in the chest. Without a moment's pause, Dutch's left hand drew his second revolver from its holster. Crack! Crack! Two more shots, and the men to the left and right of the spokesman crumpled.
In the same fluid motion, Dutch dove sideways, rolling behind a couple of sacks for cover as hell itself broke loose.
That was the signal.
Gunfire exploded across the yard. Muzzles flared in the night, smoke rising, wood splintering as bullets tore into crates and pillars.
Caleb moved fast, instincts and memory merging into one. His eyes burned red with Dead Eye as he drew focus. Time slowed.
He marked them, one, two, three, four, five Braithwaite heads in the open.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Five skulls snapped back almost in unison, bodies crumpling to the dirt before the others even realized what happened.
Caleb dropped low, snapping back into real time. He scrambled to cover behind a wooden crate as gunfire rained down from the veranda and the balconies above.
"Watch out for those inbred bastards up in the balconies!" Dutch roared from cover, firing blindly upward.
Wood shattered near Caleb's face as bullets ripped into his crate. He gritted his teeth, leaned out, and squeezed off three more shots with his navies, one man fell, another ducked, the third staggered back clutching his side.
Click. The revolvers were nearly dry. Caleb holstered them in a smooth motion and slung the Lancaster Repeater off his shoulder, cycling a round into the chamber with a sharp click clack.
He rose, sighted, and fired. A Braithwaite on the veranda dropped screaming. Another fell back into a window. The repeater bucked in his hands, steady and relentless.
Around him the yard was a battlefield. Bill's booming shotgun tore men apart at close range. Javier's revolver barked in rhythm, deadly accurate. Sean was laughing madly as he fired, his Irish brogue carrying over the chaos.
Sadie snarled as she cut down two with her repeater, her voice raw. "Come on, you bastards!"
Charles moved with calm precision, his arrows whistling death into the melee when his rifle shots didn't suffice.
The gang's initial volley had been devastating. The Braithwaite line wavered, their confidence shattered by the sudden, brutal efficiency of the attack. Seeing their advantage, Dutch began barking orders, his voice cutting through the chaos.
Dutch's orders cut through the thunder. "Charles, Sadie, Lenny, cover the left side!"
The trio moved as one, laying down a withering hail of fire that pinned the Braithwaites trying to advance from the side gardens.
Dutch then rose, shooting a man who dared to peek from behind a column, before he surged forward, his twin revolvers blazing, dropping a man with each bark of thunder. He shouted again over the chaos. "Bill! Javier! Sean! Cover the right side with more fire!"
The right side of the yard erupted as Bill's shotgun boomed, Javier's dual pistols created a staccato rhythm of death, and Sean whooped as he fired his carbine wildly but effectively.
The fight pressed harder, bodies piling in the dirt. Screams, gunfire, the smell of powder and blood hung heavy in the air.
Caleb ducked low, cycling another round, firing again. His shots cut down a Braithwaite on the balcony, another on the veranda. Each trigger pull was calculated, efficient, this wasn't panic, this was precision.
Dutch's voice rang out again, sharp and commanding even in the storm. "Hosea! Arthur! John! Caleb! With me! The rest of you hold this yard! Watch for any more of these inbred bastards!"
Caleb didn't hesitate. He shoved off the crate, Lancaster in hand, and sprinted toward Dutch's position, bullets hissing past his boots. Arthur and John moved with him, Hosea bringing up the rear, slower but steady.
Behind them, the gang's fire kept the Braithwaites pinned and even scattered, but more shouts rose from deeper inside the manor. There are many to be taken care off.
The core group moved forward, a spearhead aimed at the heart of the manor. They advanced up the steps to the veranda, stepping over the bodies of the men they had just killed. The grand front door was hanging ajar, splintered by bullets.
"We find Jack," Dutch said, his voice a low growl. "We tear this place apart board by board if we have to."
They burst into the foyer, a scene of opulent decay now marred by violence. The air was thick with dust and smoke. A Braithwaite cousin charged from a side room with a machete, but John was on him first, tackling him to the ground with a raw scream of fury, his knife finding its mark before the man could even cry out.
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 7/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 6/10
- Luck: 8/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 4)
- Rifle (Lvl 3)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 3)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 2)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 3)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 2)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 1)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 0)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 3)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 4)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Germanic Language Proficiency (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl 3)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
Money: 1,814 dollars and 46 cents
Inventory: 103,988 dollars and 50 cents, 7 gold nuggets, 58 gold bars, 7 silver rings, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 large bags of jewelry, 4 gold rings, 2 silver rings, 4 silver pocket watches, 3 gold buckles, 1 gold pocket compass, 2 platinum pocket watches, 2 Colm's Schofields, and land deed (Parcel)
Bank: -