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"Of course," Caleb said. He kept his voice low, for their ears only. He handed Mahlon the forged bank note. "For your records and corporate funds." Then, with a gesture, he indicated the canvas sack. "And the substance of our agreement. All there. You're welcome to count it, though I'd suggest a more private venue than the main street."
Mahlon took the bank note, his eyes scanning it briefly before handing it to his nephew. He then approached Morgan. With a practiced touch, he loosened the knot on the sack just enough to peer inside.
The sight of the densely packed, neatly bound stacks of cash, more money than most men saw in a lifetime, caused his professional composure to falter for just a second. A slow breath escaped him. He tightened the sack again and turned to Caleb, a new, profound respect in his gaze.
"That will not be necessary, Mr. Thorne. Your word, and the heft of this sack, is proof enough." He signaled to one of the bodyguards, a large, taciturn man, who stepped forward and efficiently transferred the heavy sack to his own care, securing it with a look that promised violent consequences for anyone who looked at it twice.
"The documents transferring the shares and establishing the new corporate structure will be drawn up by our lawyers in New Haven the moment we return," Mahlon said. "You will receive them by secured courier within the month. You have our bond."
"I look forward to it," Caleb replied. "And to our future correspondence. I'll have some initial design thoughts sent to the two of you for your factory inventors within the week."
The brothers shook his hand one final time. The transaction, monumental in its implications, was complete. With a final nod, the Marlin Brothers moved off towards the train station, their bodyguards cradling the fortune that would transform their company, and also Caleb's destiny.
Caleb and Strauss watched them go. The street around them continued its normal business, utterly unaware that the balance of power in the American firearms industry had just subtly, irrevocably, shifted in a small hotel porch in Valentine.
Strauss let out a long, shaky exhale. "It is done, Mr. Thorne."
"It's begun," Caleb corrected, his eyes not on the departing investors, but looking west, toward the half built house on the hill, and then east, toward the distant, looming shadow of Saint Denis. One foundation was laid. Another, more dangerous one, needed to be secured.
Caleb and Strauss stood for a moment longer after the Marlin brothers disappeared down the street, the rhythm of Valentine resuming around them as if nothing of consequence had just occurred.
A wagon rattled past, someone laughed near the saloon, and dust swirled lazily beneath the midday sun. The contrast between the ordinary bustle and the extraordinary transaction that had just concluded was almost surreal.
Strauss adjusted his spectacles again, still visibly steadying himself. "Then… shall we return to the restaurant, Mr. Thorne?"
"Yes," Caleb said. "There's work to be done."
They walked side by side down the boardwalk and around toward the restaurant. From outside alone, it was obvious how busy it was, voices overlapping, the hiss of a hot grill bleeding faintly through the walls, the clink of cutlery and glasses. Yesterday's closure had clearly pushed curiosity and appetite into overdrive, and the people of Valentine had responded in full.
Caleb opened the employees only front door and stepped inside, Strauss following closely. The familiar warmth hit them immediately, thick with the scent of grilled beef, fresh bread, and frying potatoes.
Jessie moved behind the counter with practiced efficiency, calling orders, while Mickey and the other who was as servers darted to serve the food. The window counter area bustled with customers, nearly every stool occupied.
They veered left into the resting area just beyond the counter, a quieter space reserved for staff and management. Caleb took a seat first, loosening his posture slightly for the first time since morning. Strauss set his suitcase down beside him and sat across, letting out a quieter breath than the one he'd released on the street.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Caleb observed the operation with a measured eye, no wasted motion, no obvious bottlenecks. The restaurant was running smoothly, even under the strain of increased traffic.
"Strauss," he began, his voice cutting through the ambient noise. "The foundation is laid. Now we build the house. Have you turned up any other potential investments? Nothing that requires a voyage abroad. Look close to home. New Hanover, Lemoyne, West Elizabeth… even New Austin. Opportunities born of this soil, its everywhere if you know where to listen."
Strauss, who had been carefully placing his suitcase on the low table between them, looked up, his eyes sharp behind his spectacles. The mention of his research seemed to animate him, a scholar presented with a chance to showcase his findings.
"Ah, of course, Mr. Thorne. The Marlin affair, it was so all consuming, it quite pushed another intriguing possibility from the forefront of my mind. But yes, I believe I have found something. Perhaps not as grand in scale, but with a… distinct and lucrative potential."
With precise movements, he unbuckled the suitcase, retrieved his leather bound ledger, and placed it on the table. His fingers, stained with ink, flipped through the pages with practiced ease, past columns of figures, lists of names, and shorthand notes on everything from Valentine cattle prices to the political leanings of mayors across five states. He stopped about two thirds of the way through.
"Ah, here it is," he murmured, turning the book around and sliding it toward Caleb. He pointed to a neatly written entry. "Strawberry. The mayor there, Nicholas Timmins, has been attempting to reinvent the town as a tourist haven for the better part of two years. Fishing, hiking, 'the pristine beauty of Big Valley,' that sort of thing. Progress, however, has been… sluggish."
Caleb leaned forward, his eyes scanning Strauss's meticulous script. "Go on."
"The cornerstone of his plan was the 'Welcome Center Lodge,' intended to be the jewel, the first impression for discerning visitors. It has, by all accounts, failed to impress. And now," Strauss tapped the page, "there are persistent rumors, circulating primarily among the hunting and trapping community that pass through here, that the lodge is to be sold due to financial constraints. The mayor's project is, potentially, on the verge of collapse."
A slow, intrigued smile spread across Caleb's face. He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Rumors from hunters in the saloon. Not exactly the in the financial column of the newspapers, is it?"
"No, sir," Strauss admitted, pushing his glasses up his nose. "It is hearsay. But as you have often said, valuable information often wears the clothes of gossip first."
"Exactly," Caleb said, his mind already racing ahead, weaving threads of possibility. "A failing tourist trap in a town desperate for success. That's not a problem, Strauss. That's a discount."
His gaze lost focus, looking past the restaurant wall, westward toward the pine clad mountains that hid Strawberry in their heart. "If it's truly for sale, I want it."
Strauss's eyebrows lifted. "You believe it has potential?"
"Massive potential," Caleb replied. "Strawberry sits on untapped value. That lodge has a potential its current owners are too blind or too bankrupt to see. It could be transformed. Not a 'welcome center' with moth eaten deer heads and mismatched chairs, but a luxury lodge. A destination in itself."
He looked back at Strauss, his decision made, the order given with calm authority. "I want you to go to Strawberry. First thing tomorrow. Don't book a room at the lodge, stay elsewhere. Be a traveler, a curious potential tourist. Listen in the townsfolk s conversation, talk to the shopkeepers, get a feel for the town's spirit and the mayor's desperation. Find out if the sale rumor is true, who holds the debt, what the asking price might be."
"But," Caleb's tone turned granite firm, "you are there to observe and inquire, not to negotiate. You collect information and you return here, straight away, once you have it. No heroics, no unnecessary risks. Is that understood?"
Strauss closed his ledger, a look of solemn duty on his face. "Perfectly, Mr. Thorne. Discretion and intelligence. I will be on the first stage tomorrow. I shall return with the facts."
Their business concluded, the tension eased. As if summoned by its end, Jessie appeared, balancing two heavy plates. "Figured that the boss and the accountant could use some proper food after all that serious talkin'," she said, setting down thick beef burgers, golden piles of fries, and two pickles. The simple, greasy feast was a sacrament to normalcy.
"Thank you, Jessie," Caleb said, the warmth in his voice genuine.
As they ate, Caleb's silence was not idle. His eyes, fixed on some middle distance beyond the window, were seeing not the dirt street of Valentine, but the cascading waterfalls of Strawberry. The taste of the burger was secondary to the flavor of the idea taking root in his mind.
'If the lodge truly was for sale…'
The Welcome Center, as it stood, was an eyesore disguised as charm, mismatched decorations, rustic clutter masquerading as authenticity. It might satisfy passing hunters or drifters, but it would never attract the kind of clientele Mayor Timmins wanted to impress.
Caleb envisioned something else entirely. A true luxury lodge.
'If the lodge is mine,' he thought, 'it won't be a rectangular two story afterthought.' His modern mind, so often focused on remembering what he saw in the past with his Past Life Memory Skill, began to sketch in the air.
He envisioned a three level structure, not fighting the landscape but embracing it, a V shaped grand hotel, its wings opening like arms to the breathtaking vista of the valley and the roaring waterfall. Designed to embrace the landscape rather than clash with it. Stone, timber, glass, materials chosen for elegance, not novelty.
His thoughts grew sharper, more detailed. He remembered that at the base of Strawberry's there's a steep waterfall.
The waterfall itself… that was the key. A Pelton wheel, like the small one he'd seen and read during history class in his past life. Install it on that steep, relentless cascade.
It would generate more than enough electricity for the lodge, for glaringly bright electric chandeliers in the lobby, for quiet, clean power in every room. And the excess? He'd sell it back to Strawberry. Mayor Timmins wants a modern tourist town? Let him power it with Caleb Thorne's electricity. For a price.
He mentally walked through the levels of his creation.
Level One would become the social heart of the lodge. Unlike the Welcome Center, it wouldn't have low ceilings and dark wood. It would be a grand lobby, soaring thirty feet, with beams of polished big valley pine. A massive stone fireplace at one end.
And there's two critical features. First, 'The Marlin-Thorne Gallery', a secure, beautifully lit, glass cased showroom where guests could admire exquisite, custom engraved examples of the partnership's craftsmanship. Brochures and order forms would be discreetly available. It would be advertising that paid for itself.
Second, a dining room for fifty, centered around an industrial sized wood fired hearth, where chefs would roast meats and game in full view, the scent alone a promise of luxury, and the design was to impress even the most jaded East Coast patrons.
Level two would be the guest suites. Twenty rooms, no more. Space was a luxury. Each would have a modern spring mattress, no straw, no feathers, imported from the east.
On each nightstand, an electric reading lamp, powered by his waterfall, a tiny beacon of modernity in the wilderness. Private balconies overlooking Strawberry's forested cliffs and rushing water. Privacy, comfort, and a view money could not otherwise buy.
Level three, he would called it The 'Presidential' Wing. Secluded, accessible by a staircase accessible only on the second floor. A suite of rooms with soundproofed walls, a private dining area, a secure study.
This would be for the truly rich and powerful men and women that come here to relax, for Mayor Timmins's wealthy backers from back east, for business that required absolute privacy, and many more. This is where the true deals would be made, away from prying eyes and listening ears.
...
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 4)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 4)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 4)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 3)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 2)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 4)
- 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: 3,526 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 77,892 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 65 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, 1 Braithwaites Land Deed, & 1 Broken Pirate Sword
Bank: -