If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
Caleb chuckled, stepped aside, and motioned for the two of them to come in. They did, gingerly, each moving like their bones were made of glass. "Thanks," Arthur muttered after sitting on the edge of the bed. "For… you know. Last night. Didn't expect to wake up in a bed, much less with boots still on and no black eye."
Lenny grunted in agreement. "You really pulled us outta the fire there, Caleb."
Caleb grinned and shrugged. "Just doing what I should do. We're family, right?"
Arthur gave him a long look, then nodded. "Damn right."
"Oh, and before I forget," Caleb said, pointing a finger at Arthur, "you owe the bar tab."
Arthur blinked. "Huh?"
"I told Mr. Douglas to put it under the name Tacitus Kilgore."
Arthur's groan was pure suffering. "Oh, goddamnit. Dutch is gonna skin me."
Lenny patted his shoulder. "Worth it."
Caleb leaned against the window frame and grinned wider. "Like Lenny said, it was worth it. And don't worry too much, if Dutch really does decide to kill you, me and Lenny will be the ones digging your grave. Proper too. We'll even put up a nice headstone… maybe with a little drawing of a whiskey bottle."
The morbid humor, delivered with Caleb's easygoing grin, That did it.
Both Arthur and Lenny let out dry chuckles, just brief, ragged sounds, but it was enough to trigger the demons pounding inside their skulls. Their laughter twisted into groans, shoulders hunching in tandem, eyes squinting shut as the throbbing in their heads intensified.
Arthur hold his temple as his head throbbed. "Jesus, don't make me laugh."
Lenny, clutching his temples, muttered, "Feels like my brain's tryin' to punch its way out my skull."
Caleb couldn't help but laugh then, a short, clean burst. "It's bad, huh? The headache?"
Arthur gave him a murderous look through one cracked eye. "Like somebody's usin' my skull as a drum."
Lenny slouched further into the bedframe, muttering something that sounded like, "Kill me now."
"Yeah, I know the feeling," Caleb said, scratching his temple. "Hold on..."
A flicker of memory danced in the back of his mind, Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX) coming in clutch. He remembered an old night back in his previous world, some bad vodka, a failed party, and him googling hangover remedies while cradling a toilet bowl.
Several thingz had stuck and one of them was ginseng. You can peel it, slice it, and chew it. Said to help with hangovers due to its antioxidants and all that jazz. American ginseng. Alaskan too. He remembered there were variations growing around in the game.
"Actually," he said slowly, acting like the idea had just popped up. "I heard somewhere, you can try chewing on some ginseng. Peel it and chew a little. Heard it helps with headaches and… uh, general misery."
Arthur gave him a sidelong glance. "Ginseng? Where'd you hear that?"
Caleb shrugged. "Somewhere. Some traveler passing through Valentine said it worked wonders. Figured it can't hurt, right?"
Lenny groaned and forced himself upright. "General store should have some. Or maybe the doctors office. If it gets rid of this headache, I'll buy the whole damn plant."
Arthur grumbled as he stood. "If it doesn't work, I'm coming back and shootin' that traveler."
Caleb waved them toward the door. "Go on, get some. And get water while you're at it. I'll be here, enjoying the quiet."
With some muttered curses and shuffling feet, the two hungover outlaws made their way out, heading toward the general store in search of salvation. Caleb watched them go, then rolled his shoulders and stretched. His back cracked with a satisfying pop. He'd slept fine. A little sore, sure, but better than those two.
After a few minutes of breathing in the morning air filtering through the window, he went downstairs, tossed 25 cents on the hotel clerk's desk, and signed the register for a hot bath. The man nodded and motioned toward the back.
The bath was hot, almost too hot at first, but it quickly sank into his bones like comfort incarnate. Caleb leaned back, let the heat wrap around his bruises and aches, and sighed. He soaked until his muscles unknotted.
There was something sacred about a good bath in the Wild West. No gunfire, no cold wind, no dirty faces or muddy boots. Just steam, still water, and a few fleeting moments of peace.
Afterward, wrapped back into his Vaquero outfit that he had let get some wind and steam of the hot bath., boots freshly brushed, he then methodically cleaned his weapons. Each piece was disassembled, oiled, and reassembled with practiced ease.
Then he ensures that his twin Schofields were truly cleaned and oiled. The Lancaster Repeater glinted in the morning light, barrel pristine, lever smooth. His pump action shotgun, sturdy and deadly, hung across his back, ready for whatever came his way.
By the time he stepped out of the hotel, the sun was high in the sky. He stepped outside just as Arthur and Lenny came riding up on their horses, looking a little less like death warmed over. Lenny was chewing on a peeled ginseng root with a contemplative expression.
"There he is!" Lenny called out, raising a hand in greeting. "You missed the finest ginseng Valentine has to offer."
Arthur scowled from his saddle. "Still tastes like dirt. But… headache's fading a little."
Caleb chuckled. "Told you. You boys heading back to camp?"
Lenny nodded. "Yep. Figured we'd better check in back before Dutch sends a search party. Since we never actually planned to sleep in town."
Arthur looked Caleb up and down. "You look ready and dandy. Coming with us?"
Caleb shook his head. "Nah. Still got things to take care of in town. You boys go on ahead. I'll come back later when I'm finished here."
Arthur gave a slow nod. "Suit yourself."
"Safe ride," Caleb added as they turned their horses.
But just as they started to guide their mounts away, Caleb stepped forward and approached them.
"Hey, Arthur," he said, voice low, quiet enough that only the two of them could hear. "When you planning to go and save Micah?"
Arthur froze. The morning breeze seemed to still for a moment. He didn't look at Caleb right away. Just stared ahead, jaw working, lips pursed. The silence stretched.
"Maybe in three days," he said finally. "Why? You wanna come?"
Caleb kept his expression neutral. "Figured you might need backup. But I got my own business first to handle. We'll see in three days."
Arthur studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Alright. You sure?"
Caleb gave a faint smile. "We'll see in three days. Like I said… got things to do."
Arthur nodded once, then clicked his tongue to his horse. "Alright. See you then."
Lenny gave Caleb a lazy salute. "Thanks again for the ginseng idea. And the room. And saving our asses."
"Don't mention it."
With that, the two rode off, leaving Caleb standing in the dusty Valentine street. Caleb exhaled slowly, watching their figures shrink in the distance.
Three days.
Three days until Arthur would ride to Strawberry. Three days until Micah Bell, the rat, the traitor, the man who would eventually destroy the gang, was pulled back into the gang like how the plot should be.
Caleb's fingers twitched toward his revolver. A decision he hadn't made his mind up from yesterday, and he had decide what to do now.
"I could ride there now."
Strawberry wasn't far. He could ask for direction, then track the direction with his map system, and be there by nightfall. One bullet. One less problem.
But Dutch's orders was clear and absolute, Micah was to be broken out, not left to rot. Going against that would burn every bridge Caleb had built with the gang.
And yet…
The image of Arthur's grave, lonely and marked, thanks to Charles he could even be buried, in his memories of the game, flashed in his mind.
"Three days." Time enough to prepare.
With that in mind, Caleb returned to his room in the hotel. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality. He took off his hat, the familiar weight lifting from his head, and placed it on the night table beside the bed.
The moment he sat down, the springs groaned beneath him, but he barely noticed. His mind was already turning, a swarm of thoughts forming patterns and fragments of plans.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and exhaled through his nose. Killing Micah Bell. Not just out of spite. Not just because of the betrayal. But because of what it meant, what it prevented.
Arthur dying in the mountain. Dutch descending into madness. The gang splintering. Sadie turning into a lone ghost of vengeance. John barely making it out alive. Jack growing up with only fading stories. All of it spiraled from the moment Micah Bell rejoined the gang.
He had a chance here. A real one. But if he got it wrong, if he botched this…
He'd either be swinging from a noose in Strawberry or hunted across the state by every deputy wearing a badge.
The most obvious idea was simple. Wait outside the window of the sheriff's office, that window, the one where Micah could be seen glaring out into the street. In the game, that's where Arthur triggered the mission. If Caleb could just get a clean shot through the window with a revolver…
But the second he pulled that trigger, the entire damn town would be on him like hornets on a kicked nest. Even with a mask, even with distance, it was too loud, too fast, too risky.
And getting away through the open area of Strawberry with the entire population had guns and will go out to investigate after gunfire? No. Not without planning an exit route, maybe with his horse already beside him when he shoots and ride away, maybe even a second shooter as a distraction, no, even that was too unstable.
He scratched his temple, frustration tugging at his jaw. A knife, maybe? Go the window silent it, lure Micah near the window bars, then jab the blade right through the gaps of the bar, maybe straight to the throat, or the eye socket. Brutal. Quiet. But then what?
The other prisoners would shout. The sheriff would come running. Deputies too. Best case, he escapes wounded. Worst case, he gets caught, the gang learns of his betrayal, and he ends up shot between the eyes not by law, but by Dutch himself.
It wasn't clean.
He needed clean.
And then it happened, just a flicker in his mind. That sensation, like a dream being remembered mid-thought. Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX) activated, drawing forward a dusty, buried scene from his old world.
A YouTube video, he could even hear the narrator's voice, smug and too upbeat, a video he was watching due to his work at the firearms factory. "How to make a makeshift suppressor using common household items, WARNING: For educational purposes only."
His eyes widened.
Suppressor.
But this was 1899. Modern suppressors wouldn't exist for decades.
But makeshift ones?
His Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 2) immediately kicked in, building on the memory with practical application. He could make one.
It wouldn't be perfect, it wouldn't turn his Schofield into a whisper, but it could reduce the sound enough to avoid instant panic. Especially if timed with thunder, or during a middle of the mid night when the streets were nearly dead.
A suppressor was just a expansion chamber to slow and cool escaping gases. In theory, he could cobble one together with:
Something like a sturdy metal tube or pipe, short enough to fit over a revolver barrel without affecting the front sight. Maybe a rubber padding, leather could do in a pinch. Cloth or wool for stuffing. Some sort of a cap or end plug with venting holes. Some screws, clamps, or straps to keep the thing in place.
________________________________
Name:Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 6/10
- Agility: 6/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 6/10
- Charm: 5/10
- Luck: 5/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 2)
- Rifle (Lvl 2)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 2)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 1)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 1)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 2)
- Poker (Lvl 1)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 1)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 1)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 1)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 0)
Money: 664 dollars and 61 cents
Bank: 40 dollars, 2 gold bars, a large bag of jewelry, and 3 gold nuggets