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"The design is sound," Caleb said, thinking aloud. "But the execution needs to be perfect. The pillars here," he pointed to the central support posts, "could use a sister post alongside each, bolted together. Doubles the strength for the cost of a little extra timber."
George squinted, mentally calculating. "Aye, that'd do it. Simple, but effective. See, this is why it's good for you to always come out here boss. You see things differently." He then chuckled. "Though, normally the client ain't the one offerin' engineering solutions."
Caleb shrugged off his coat and draped it over a sawhorse. "I'm not a normal client, George. You know that. And I've got a restless mind today. You need an extra set of hands? Skilled or otherwise, I'm not above swinging a hammer."
George looked genuinely surprised, then laughed. "Is that right? Well, boss, I won't say no. More hands make lighter work, 'specially hands that know which end of the hammer to hold. And you… I've seen you work. You're more than handy. You sure? Gets mighty dusty."
"Positive," Caleb said, rolling up his sleeves. "Point me where I'll be most useful."
For the next several hours, Caleb Thorne ceased to be an industrialist and a schemer. He became a carpenter's assistant, a laborer, and a craftsman.
He helped Seth and Elias haul and position the heavy sister posts for the central pillars, holding them steady as George drove thick iron bolts through the pre drilled holes.
He took a turn at sawing planks for the second floor joists, his movements efficient and precise. He helped a young worker named Joe align fence posts, using a spirit level and a taught string line to ensure they were perfectly straight.
The physical work was a profound release. There was a purity in the strain of muscle, the immediate feedback of a well struck nail, the tangible progress of a wall rising beam by beam.
It was the antithesis of the abstract, nerve wracking dance of high finance. Here, a mistake was a split piece of wood, easily replaced. There, a mistake could be ruin.
As he worked, a familiar, almost subliminal awareness tingled at the edge of his perception. It was the same feeling he got when he perfectly fitted a complex sear mechanism or flawlessly rifled a barrel.
A sense of deep, intuitive understanding of the materials and forces at play. While chiseling a mortise joint for a brace, the tool seemed an extension of his will, the wood yielding not to force, but to guided persuasion.
As he finished, stepping back to examine the snug, perfect fit, a transparent, blue tinted notification appeared in the corner of his vision, visible only to him.
[Crafting Skill has increased from Level 3 → Level 4.]
[Increased efficiency and precision in fabrication and construction. Advanced techniques are now more intuitive.]
A genuine, unguarded smile spread across his sweat streaked face. The system's acknowledgment was a reward in itself, a quantification of growing mastery.
It wasn't just about guns anymore. It was about building. Creating. Whether it was a revolutionary firearm, a corporate empire, or a simple, strong joint in a house frame, the principle was the same: vision, applied with skill, yielded results.
By midday, the crew downed tools. The progress was visible: the house frame was noticeably stronger, braced and ready for its next vertical push, another fifty yards of fence stood straight and true.
Caleb, feeling the pleasant burn of used muscles, took Morgan and ranged out along the tree line. His keen eyes soon found a small group of whitetail deer. Two clean shots from his rifle later, and he was hauling the carcasses back to camp.
The workers, used to hardtack and beans, let out a cheer. They quickly built up the fire, skinned and butchered the deer, and soon thick, fragrant steaks and haunches were sizzling over the flames. The meal was a festive, communal affair.
Caleb sat on a log alongside George, Seth, and Elias, eating the simply roasted, seasoned meat with his fingers. The conversation was easy, revolving around the work, the weather, a funny story about a misplaced tool.
For a while, Caleb was just one of the men, his authority present but unspoken, built on respect for his willingness to work alongside them, not just pay them.
As the sun began its downward slide, casting long shadows from the nascent buildings, Caleb knew it was time to return. He washed his hands and face in a bucket of water, shrugged back into his coat, now dusted with sawdust and smelling of woodsmoke and sweat.
"You comin' back tomorrow, boss?" George asked, gnawing on a final rib.
"Likely," Caleb said, swinging up into Morgan's saddle. "But business may call me away. You have the plan. Keep it moving, George. And remember, overbuild it. I want this place standing for a hundred years."
"Aye, sir. It'll be a big strong house."
The ride back to Valentine was contemplative. The physical fatigue was a grounding counterweight to the cerebral whirlwind of the past days. He had laid steel with the Marlins. He had laid timber today. Both acts felt fundamentally the same, the deliberate, skilled placement of one piece of a larger, grander design.
Back in Valentine, the evening was settling in. Lamplight glowed in windows, and the saloon was beginning to emit its familiar din of piano music and raised voices. He hitched Morgan, gave her a thorough rub down and extra oats for his patience, then walked toward the hotel.
As he entered the lobby, the clean, indoor air felt strange after a day in the open. He nodded to the clerk and took the stairs, his boots leaving faint traces of dirt on the steps. He found Mary-Beth in their room, not writing this time, but reading a novel by the lamp. She looked up, and her nose wrinkled playfully.
"You smell of… forest, and hard work."
"That's because I've been in the forest, working hard," he replied, a tired but satisfied grin on his face. He told her of the day's progress, of the rising house and the dry, technical details. Omitting only the leveled up skill.
She listened, a soft smile on her lips. "It sounds… honest," she said finally.
"It is," he agreed, sinking into a chair. "It's straightforward. A welcome change."
"And Strawberry?" she asked softly.
Caleb's gaze drifted to the window, where the last light of day was fading in the west, the direction Strauss had gone. "We'll know in a few days," he said, his voice low. "If the rumor is true… then the straightforward work ends, and the other kind begins again."
He was silent for a moment, seeing in his mind's eye not just the half built house on the hill, but the imagined V shaped lodge straddling a waterfall, a haven for the powerful, powered by his own ingenuity.
Two constructions, one of wood and one of ambition, rising simultaneously. He stretched, his joints popping pleasantly. Tomorrow would bring what it may.
For now, the honest ache in his muscles and the quiet company of the woman he loved were enough. The foundations, literal and metaphorical, were being laid.
That night passed quietly.
The following morning, Strauss returned.
Caleb was in the restaurant when the door opened and Strauss stepped inside, travel dust clinging to his coat. His expression was tight, not fearful, but charged with urgency.
They took seats in the resting area once more.
"Well?" Caleb asked.
Strauss exhaled slowly. "The rumors are true."
Caleb leaned back, eyes sharpening. "The lodge?"
"Is indeed for sale," Strauss confirmed. "The Welcome Center Lodge is hemorrhaging money. Mayor Timmins has been propping it up personally, but his backers are growing impatient. The asking price is… reasonable."
Caleb smiled faintly.
Strauss continued, flipping open his ledger. "I spoke discreetly. No one suspects outside interest yet. But if we move quickly, we can secure it before another buyer steps in."
Caleb nodded once. "Good work. What is the asking price of it's reasonable."
The tension in Strauss's frame was palpable as he delivered the news. "The asking price is… fluid. The mayor's aide, a man named Cecil, initially cited a range of eight to ten thousand dollars."
Caleb's lips curved slightly, not surprise, but calculation.
"In our private conversation, he admitted the mayor's firm price is ten thousand." Strauss continued. "But Cecil, he opened with the lower figure to eight thousand, because… well, because there has been no offer. Not a single expression of interest, despite advertisements in business circulars from Blackwater to Saint Denis. Not even from local investors in West Elizabeth."
Caleb's smile was a cold, sharp thing. "So, desperation has set in."
"Profoundly, sir," Strauss nodded, adjusting his glasses. "The operational costs are a millstone. Mayor Timmins's personal finances are intertwined with the project, and from what I gathered, the lodge has a reputation problem. Combined with High operational costs, low occupancy, and poor vision. The lodge have become a symbol of failure. Cecil is under immense pressure to make it disappear, even at a loss, just to stop the bleeding."
"Perfect," Caleb murmured, his mind already calculating. "No outside interest means no bidding war. And your inquiry?"
"Has made us the sole point of light in a very dark room for Cecil. He was… pathetically eager. I believe he sees me as his salvation."
"Good. Then we must not keep our man who needs saving waiting." Caleb stood up, the chair scraping softly on the wooden floor. "Prepare the necessary documents for acquisition. Standard purchase agreement, but with clauses for immediate occupancy and transfer of all existing permits."
"And," he added, his voice dropping, "the supplementary documentation as well. The same quality as the Marlin note."
Strauss gave a solemn nod. "The bank drafts will be impeccable, Mr. Thorne. I understand."
"I know you do. Have it ready in around five days. We'll travel to Strawberry together to close this."
With a final, decisive nod to Strauss, Caleb left the restaurant. The Strawberry lodge was now a tangible target, a piece on the board to be captured. But before he moved on it, there was another, more dangerous board that required his attention. Saint Denis.
The smoldering conflict between Angelo Bronte and the Pinkerton National Detective Agency was a vortex that could suck in anyone on its periphery. He needed to gauge its temperature, to see if Milton had slunk back to his masters or if the Pinkertons had been truly expelled from the city.
His own role in that bloody ambush, sniper shots that felled Ross and others, leaving Milton to flee, was a secret that needed to remain buried. He would go for two, maybe three days. A quiet reconnaissance before returning back.
He climbed the stairs to the hotel's second floor, his mind already mapping the journey east. As he reached the landing, the door to his room opened and Mary-Beth stepped out. Her face, upon seeing him, lit up with a radiant smile that momentarily pushed aside all thoughts of business and danger.
"There you are," she said, her voice warm. "I was just coming to look for you."
He closed the distance, taking her hands in his. They were smooth against his own, which were still faintly rough from yesterday's labor. "And what have I done to deserve a search party?"
She nodded, fingers curling around his. "I have. Thought you might be buried in business again."
"Was," he admitted. "Still am, probably."
"Well," she said, tugging gently at his hands, "you're not right now."
He raised an eyebrow. "That so?"
"Oh, nothing terrible," she teased, but her eyes were soft with genuine concern. "I've just… I booked the hotel tub for a proper hot bath for you. It's being filled now downstairs. And I asked the saloon to send over a proper lunch, some steak with potatoes, oat poroudge, and an apple pie, for us to have in the room."
...
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) → (Lvl 4)
- 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: -