The next day.
"Time to get to work, Mac. Saddle up and come with me."
Davey called to Mac — it was time to collect debts. Dutch was pleased Davey had sent Mac out; even if Davey hadn't turned in his share, doing work for the gang still counted as contribution.
Mac was roused from a deep sleep, reluctant but hauling himself up to prepare.
"John, you coming?"
After a moment's thought, Davey walked over to John's tent and called.
John looked puzzled; Abigail's face wore worry.
"Abigail, you can't keep John holed up in camp forever. He won't earn a thing that way. Debt collecting's a legitimate business — there's no real danger," Davey said, addressing Abigail. He knew John always listened to her.
"Thank you, Davey." Abigail understood at once — this was Davey giving John an opportunity. With her approval, John couldn't refuse.
Davey had his own reasons for bringing John. The moonshine operation was about to start, and relying on Mac alone wouldn't be enough to protect the business. He couldn't be the one to personally fight every rival gang forever. Even now, most gangs wouldn't stand against the Callander brothers, but expanding the moonshine trade required more hands.
John hadn't fully come into his own yet; in the Van der Linde Gang he was second-tier. His marksmanship wasn't on Micah's level, but he was better than Bill and Javier — a useful helper.
...
The three mounted up and soon left Horseshoe Overlook. They didn't head straight for Painted Sky; first they rode to Limpany.
John wondered quietly why they were going there, but he said nothing.
Led by Mac, they arrived at a burned-out cabin. There was a cellar below — the fake medicine peddler Benedict Allbright was being held there.
They opened the cellar door; a dim light glowed from below. A kerosene lamp had been lit.
Inside, Benedict Allbright was gagged and tied to a post on the wall.
"Mac, untie him. How can you treat a gentleman so rudely?" Davey instructed.
Once Benedict was freed, he demanded, "Who are you people? Why did you kidnap me? I've no money — every cent's gone. What do you want from me?"
After two days of confinement in that cellar, Benedict's nerves were frayed.
Bang!
Davey drew his Colt and fired a shot into the dirt at Benedict's feet.
"Perhaps you need to calm down, Mr. Benedict."
The Colt's threat snapped Benedict to attention. He didn't doubt that if he kept shouting, the next bullet would be for his forehead. This was a pack of ruthless outlaws; if they killed him here, no one would ever know.
"What do you want, sir?" Benedict asked, voice trembling.
Davey replied evenly, "My name is Davey Callander. You may call me Mr. Callander. I want to work with you, Mr. Benedict."
Benedict swallowed hard. "Mr. Callander, I don't know how I could help. I only make counterfeit medicines — they don't actually cure anything."
Davey shook his head. "No, I don't want fake medicine. I want moonshine. I want you to work for me — to distill liquor."
"If you can make fake medicine, Mr. Benedict, brewing moonshine shouldn't be beyond you," Davey said.
Benedict hesitated. "Esteemed Mr. Callander, you know I only make fake medicine. As for moonshine… I—"
"Enough." Davey waved him off. "Mr. Benedict, perhaps my intelligence was wrong. I thought brewing moonshine would be simple for you. There's nothing more to discuss."
Benedict hadn't expected Davey to be so curt. Trembling, he asked, "Then, esteemed Mr. Callander, may I go now?"
Davey's tone turned cold. "Go? Mr. Benedict, are you joking?"
"You know my secret now. For me, only the dead keep secrets."
"Don't worry. I'll make it quick. You won't suffer. Then this cellar will be set aflame — everything burned clean."
"Alright, Mr. Benedict, any last words? If not, this ends now."
Davey drew his Colt slowly from its holster, clearly preparing to put a bullet through Benedict's head.