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But Dutch didn't slow down. "Combined with the money we're gonna take today," Dutch said, spreading his arms dramatically again, "that will secure all of us for the rest of our lives! We'll grow old together, free and rich, far from the law!"
Caleb silently suppressed a smirk.
Using every ounce of his Acting Skill, he kept his face blank, calm, attentive, and emotionless.
Because no one here knew he had already taken the Blackwater money.
He had it safely stored in his system inventory, where no Pinkerton, no rival gang, no disaster could ever touch it. Dutch would be chasing ghosts when he returned to his mother's grave and found nothing but dirt waiting for him.
And honestly?
Caleb was looking forward to seeing Dutch's face when that moment came.
But now?
Chaos was coming long before that.
Hosea stepped forward, voice tight with barely contained fear. "Dutch… it isn't a good time yet to take the money from Blackwater. You know that. It's still too dangerous—"
Dutch's expression shifted instantly. Grim. Cold. Filled with sharp, brittle anger.
"Hosea," Dutch snapped, "just follow my lead. I have a plan ready to take that money out. All you have to do is trust me."
Hosea opened his mouth to respond—
But Dutch cut him off harshly, raising his voice again to the entire camp.
"And now!" Dutch barked. "We separate into four groups!"
Everyone straightened automatically.
Caleb narrowed his eyes.
Dutch held out four fingers, assigning each team with decisive, commanding authority.
"The first group," Dutch said. "Me, Bill, and Javier."
Bill puffed his chest up, proud.
Javier nodded with that forced confidence Caleb recognized from men pretending they weren't worried.
"The second group," Dutch continued. "Arthur, Hosea, and Lenny."
Arthur's jaw tightened. Hosea lowered his eyes. Lenny tried to look brave.
"The third group, Charles, Sean, and Sadie."
Sean grinned wildly. Sadie didn't smile at all. Charles looked resigned.
Then Dutch turned his head slightly, eyes sliding past Caleb like he wasn't worth noticing.
"And lastly, the fourth group," Dutch said, "would be Caleb and John."
John blinked.
Caleb remained still.
Dutch continued immediately, as if the pairing meant nothing. As if Caleb had no significance.
"And each group," Dutch said, pointing to different directions with sweeping motions, "will head toward their respective stagecoach routes, here, here, here, and here."
He jabbed the map that was placed on to a table that he placed beside the fountain, outlining each route with swift, decisive motions.
Group One: A heavily guarded coach near the Saint Denis trading road.
Group Two: A route splitting from Rhodes' northern trail.
Group Three: A coach traveling from Annesburg down through the mining valley.
Group Four: A government marked coach heading from Valentine toward the outskirts of Saint Denis.
Caleb and John's coach.
'Convenient,' Caleb thought dryly.
Too convenient.
Dutch finished with a booming declaration.
"We get the money, we regroup, we disappear, and by sundown… our new future begins!"
Some cheered. Some didn't.
Most looked uncertain. Caleb saw it all.
Every flicker of doubt. Every sliver of fear. Every skull deep certainty in those who trusted Dutch blindly.
But the plan was in motion now.
There was no stopping it.
Once Dutch finished his dramatic sendoff, people broke off into their assigned groups. Horses were saddled. Guns were checked. Ammunition was strapped on tight. Saddlebags were loaded.
Caleb and John walked toward their horses side by side.
"Hell of a morning," John muttered.
Caleb smirked faintly. "And it's only gonna get worse."
John grunted. "Figure as much."
They mounted up, each group shifting in place, waiting for Dutch to finish fussing over his own horse.
Caleb looked across the yard.
Arthur was adjusting Lenny's saddle strap, trying to keep the younger man calm. Hosea sat quietly on his horse with a ghost white expression, no longer trying to hide how worried he was.
Charles spoke quietly to Sadie, who nodded with stiff determination. Sean bounced excitedly in his saddle like an idiot eager to get himself shot.
Javier rolled his shoulders. Bill cracked his knuckles. Dutch smiled as if this were the happiest morning of his life.
Then Dutch raised an arm. "Let's ride!"
And the gang split off into four diverging paths, four directions, four inevitabilities.
Caleb and John urged their horses forward, peeling away from camp and heading down the muddy path leading toward the main road. The air was still cold. The sun barely above the trees. The world quiet.
Too quiet.
John rode beside Caleb in silence for a long minute, then finally asked, "So. You think this is a trap?"
Caleb didn't hesitate.
"Yes," he said simply.
John nodded slowly. "Yeah. I figured."
They continued toward the road, hooves splashing in shallow puddles, rifles bouncing against their shoulders, the weight of the day settling in heavier and heavier.
After some distance, John glanced over again.
"You ever think," John said quietly, "that maybe Dutch ain't just makin' bad choices… but that he's tryin' to drag the rest of us down with him?"
Caleb looked ahead at the rising sun, expression hardening.
"I think Dutch is scared," Caleb said. "And scared men make stupid decisions when they pretend they're brave."
John huffed. "That's one way to put it."
Caleb didn't say the other way.
They rode in near silence, the morning wind brushing through the tall grass as they approached the dirt road where their target stagecoach was expected to pass.
Caleb scanned every ridge, every treeline, every shadow. His instincts hummed like a live wire.
John noticed.
"You see somethin'?" John asked.
"No," Caleb said, "and that's the problem."
John frowned. "Meaning?"
"Meaning if the Pinkertons set this up," Caleb replied, "they wouldn't put men where we could see 'em."
John adjusted his Carbine on his shoulder. "Well… let's keep our eyes open."
They dismounted behind a cluster of boulders just off the road. Caleb crouched down, Litchfield ready, shotgun within reach.
Minutes passed.
Birds chirped.
Wind rustled the trees.
Then—
John tensed.
Caleb heard it too.
Wheels rolling over dirt.
Heavy.
Steady.
Caleb peered through the tall grass.
A stagecoach.
Government marked.
Just as Dutch promised.
Two guards up front, rifles slung casually. One more inside, judging by the shadow.
No extra patrols.
No Pinkertons hiding in plain sight.
No riders following behind.
John whispered, "Looks normal."
"Too normal," Caleb murmured.
The coach rolled closer.
Caleb steadied his breath.
John shifted his grip.
Then—
A twig snapped behind them.
Caleb froze.
Slowly, painfully slowly, he turned his head, and saw three men emerging from the treeline behind them.
Pinkertons.
Not many.
Just enough to try to quietly capture two stragglers.
Caleb's eyes hardened.
That answered the question.
Dutch had walked straight into a setup.
But not the kind Caleb expected.
Not a massive ambush.
Not a total annihilation.
Something smaller.
Something surgical.
Something meant to weaken the gang piece by piece.
And right now?
Caleb and John were pieces on the board.
John whispered, "Caleb—"
"I see 'em."
One Pinkerton raised his rifle.
And Caleb reacted first.
Caleb surged upward, Litchfield already firing before the Pinkerton even steadied his aim. His shot tore through the man's shoulder, spinning him backward into the trees.
John dove behind a boulder as the remaining two Pinkertons opened fire, bullets cracking into the stone.
The stagecoach horses panicked, veering sharply. The guards shouted and began to pull the reins, unsure whether to flee or join the fight.
Caleb fired again, forcing one Pinkerton to duck.
John leaned out and put a bullet clean through the second man's hat, missing by inches but forcing him to retreat.
Caleb switched smoothly to his shotgun.
The closest Pinkerton charged forward, thinking Caleb was pinned. He thought wrong. Caleb swung out from behind the boulder and pulled the trigger.
The boom echoed across the field like thunder, and the man went down instantly. John took advantage, firing two quick shots and hitting the second Pinkerton in the leg, dropping him to the dirt.
The final Pinkerton tried to run.
Caleb's second shotgun blast ensured he didn't get far.
Silence fell.
The stagecoach guards tried to flee, whipping the horses hard, but John took down one of the wheels with a precise shot, sending the coach crashing onto its side.
Caleb stepped forward, heart pounding, eyes cold.
"That," he muttered, "wasn't the main trap."
John jogged beside him, reloading. "Yeah… I was thinkin' the same thing."
They approached the tipped stagecoach carefully.
The guard inside crawled out with his hands raised. "Alright, alright! Don't shoot!"
Caleb pointed his Litchfield at his chest.
"Money," Caleb said flatly. "Where is it?"
The man pointed shakily to a metal lockbox inside the overturned coach.
John retrieved it, heavy and clanking, and strapped it onto his saddle.
Caleb finished the guard off by shooting him on the head, leaving no witnesses even though the gaurdcoudl be said to innocent, but it have to be done.
John looked around the empty field.
"No other riders," John muttered. "No full ambush. So why only send three Pinkertons and two guards after us?"
Caleb answered instantly.
"To divide us," he said. "Distract us. Wear us down. Make sure no one's close enough to help the others."
John swore under his breath. "Meaning the others—"
"Yeah," Caleb said. "They're on their own."
John mounted his horse immediately.
"Then we'd best ride back."
Caleb nodded sharply and mounted up just as fast.
"We regroup with Hosea and Arthur first," Caleb said. "They're the ones Dutch won't listen to. They're the ones who'll be in the worst trouble."
John didn't argue. They rode. Fast. Hard.
Straight back toward the swamp.
Straight toward whatever had happened to the other three groups. Straight toward whatever Dutch had just thrown the gang into.
And Caleb felt it deep in his bones—
This was only the beginning. The real hell hadn't even started yet. He tightened his grip on the reins.
"Hold on, everyone," he whispered to himself. "We're comin'."
Caleb and John didn't waste a second as the two of them kicked their heels into their horses and thundered down the narrow back trail, the morning sun barely cutting through the fog as it rose higher above the swamp. Mud and water splashed behind their horses' hooves, branches snapped against their coats, and the crisp air stung their faces as they rode.
John glanced over his shoulder, breath blowing out harshly. "You sure we're goin' the right damn way?" he barked over the pounding hooves.
Caleb didn't slow down. Didn't blink. Didn't hesitate. "Of course we are," Caleb said, nodding with utter confidence. "I know the area. I've ridden all through here a couple times before. I marked out places where ambushes are likeliest."
It was a lie.
A perfect, flawless lie.
Because Caleb wasn't "knowing the area."
He was reading the map interface only he could see, bright, glowing markers showing exactly where Arthur, Hosea, and Lenny were pinned down.
The map outlined their movements, their slowed pace, the cluster of enemy markers tightening around them like a noose, as it showed the precise locations of the other teams. Arthur's marker was blinking a frantic red ahead. They were on the right path, and they were running out of time.
John had no clue.
And Caleb preferred it that way.
He kept his gaze forward, pretending he knew the trail by instinct while tracking every shifting marker in the corner of his vision.
"We'll reach them in time," Caleb added firmly.
John shook his head, pushing his horse harder. "We better. I ain't lettin' Dutch get good men killed today."
Caleb didn't respond aloud, but his grip tightened.
The trail split.
Caleb turned left without pausing, and John followed immediately.
The sounds of the forest grew sharper with every second, the rustle of bushes, the distant creak of branches, the cry of birds overhead. But there was something else too.
Faint.
But growing.
Gunfire.
John lifted his head. His eyes widened. "Goddammit!" John cursed, drawing his Carbine. "Hope we ain't too late!"
Caleb had already unslung his Litchfield, holding the repeater steady in his left hand while guiding Morgan with his right, flicking the reins to make her ride faster. "They're still alive," Caleb said sharply. "If we hear shots, they're still holdin' on. That means they need us now."
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 7/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 7/10
- Luck: 8/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 4)
- Rifle (Lvl 4)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 4)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 3)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 4)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 3)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 3)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 2)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 3)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 4)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl 4)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
Money: 3,655 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 104,669 dollars and 72 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 64 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, & 1 Ruby
Bank: -