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Chapter 68 - 66. Dead Of The Rat

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He would change into these clothes during his ride to Strawberry, allowing him to become a new stranger who comes into town when he arrives. He spent a few more minutes making sure his gear was ready. His revolvers were clean and loaded, his repeater was secured, and the Cattleman with a suppressor was safe inside his satchel.

He slipped his knife into his belt and adjusted the bandolier across his chest. Every piece of gear was where it should be. Everything he might need was ready.

"You ready for a ride, girl?" he murmured.

Stark whickered softly, pawing at the dirt.

They set out, leaving Valentine behind, heading west toward Strawberry.

The ride was peaceful at first. The trails were familiar but mostly empty, just the occasional rider passing by or a wagon loaded with items creaking along the road.

Caleb kept his head down, tipping his hat politely to anyone who looked his way but otherwise minding his own business.

He passed through the winding trails that led toward Strawberry, his eyes shifting between the landscape and the Map function in his system interface.

The winding trails were familiar, carved into memory from earlier travels, but he wasn't about to take chances. Roads could change with weather, with construction, or simply with the fickle nature of the wild frontier.

As he rode, the sun dipped low, the sky painted in golden orange and dusky rose, throwing long shadows through the trees and across the dirt paths. He passed through the Dakota River, Cumberland Falls, and Wallace Station just like before.

It was just past 5:30 PM when he reached the outskirts of Strawberry's northern entrance. He could see the top of the gallows and the sheriff's office silhouetted against the amber sky.

Not wanting to draw any attention or risk being recognized, Caleb guided Stark off the main road and into the woods that hugged the hill slopes just outside town.

Here, among the underbrush and whispering pines, Caleb made camp. He unsaddled Stark carefully, brushing her coat with long strokes and offering a sliced apple treat, murmuring praise as he worked.

"You did good today, girl. Real smooth," he said as he rubbed down her sides. Stark whickered contentedly, leaning into the brush with half lidded eyes.

Once she was secured and fed, Caleb turned to his own needs. He chewed slowly on salted venison, still flavorful, if a bit dry, and drank deeply from his water canteen. The fire he started was modest, its orange glow barely reaching beyond the small clearing. He sat close to it, staring into the flickering flames.

Soon when it turned to night, sounds surrounded him, chirping insects, the soft rustling of leaves, and the distant murmur of the river near the town. It was peaceful. It gave him time to think.

He stood up after finishing his meal and began to stretch, then stepped away from the firelight and threw a few practice jabs and short combinations. A few minutes passed, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead as he shadowboxed, throwing hooks and ducking imaginary counters.

"Still no level up, huh," he muttered after a while, checking his skill list through the interface. Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 1) stubbornly refused to tick upward.

Time passed slowly. He occasionally checked his pocket watch, watching the minutes crawl by. Caleb checked his pocket watch for the tenth time and it was 11:30 PM.

The world was swallowed in full darkness, the moon high and half veiled behind drifting clouds. The sounds of town like talk, clatter, and music, had all faded into silence.

It was time.

He put out the fire, burying the coals under dirt and scattering leaves to cover the blackened spot. Then he returned to Stark and opened one of her saddlebags.

His fingers moved with practiced precision, changing out of his dusty Vaquero outfit piece by piece. He donned the rough linen coat, slipping it over a plain cotton shirt.

He buttoned up the scuffed vest, pulled on worn trousers, and tied the laces on his simple work boots. The wide brimmed brown hat topped it all off, floppy and forgettable.

Now he looked the part of some drifter. Nobody would link this man to the well-armed, clean-cut rider who'd left Valentine earlier that day.

With his bandana ready in his pocket and the suppressed Cattleman revolver tucked carefully inside his satchel, Caleb mounted Stark once more.

They rode into town under cover of night.

The northern entrance was eerily quiet. The gallows loomed like a skeletal giant to his right, and the second floor windows of the sheriff's office were light, likely the Sheriff and deputies took their nightly watch today.

The road sloped down slightly, gravel crunching under Stark's hooves. To the right stood the Hotel, its windows shuttered for the night.

Beside it, the alley waited, tight and dark, with stacked logs along the side and the distinctive silhouette of the steam donkey partially illuminated by a nearby lantern.

Caleb steered Stark into the alley and turned her to face outward, in case a fast getaway was needed. He dismounted silently, pulling the bandana up over the lower half of his face and adjusting it tightly behind his head.

Reaching into his satchel, his hand wrapped around the grip of the suppressed Cattleman revolver. He hadn't drawn it yet, but his fingers rested on it with silent anticipation. Then, crouching low and slow, he crept toward the barred window on the right side of the sheriff's office.

The iron bars were cold to the touch. Caleb's eyes adjusted to the gloom.

No one was at the window. No snarling voice. No slurs or complaints.

He furrowed his brow, crouched beside the wall, and smeared a streak of mud across his forehead and around his eyes for extra camouflage. Then he rasped out in a gruff, almost gravelly whisper:

"Micah. Micah Bell. You still breathin' in there?"

There was a moment of silence.

"Who's askin'?"

The voice was unmistakable, raspy, arrogant, and laced with the promise of violence. Then the shadow moved, and a bruised, grime covered face came into view. Micah Bell, gaunt and sneering, approached the bars. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Who the hell are you?"

Caleb stepped slightly into the light, making sure the mud and shadows kept his features obscured. "Someone sent to get you out," he said lying smoothly. "Ain't got time for questions."

Micah's eyes gleamed like a rat finding a scrap. His grin twisted into something wide and wicked.

"Well, ain't that just the best thing I've heard after staying here, and music to my ears!" he hissed, chuckling under his breath. "Let's not dawdle, friend. Hurry up and spring me loose from this shithole, I'm getting sick of the stench in here."

Caleb returned the smile, but only internally.

"With pleasure," he said softly.

The suppressed revolver cleared the satchel in a flash, and two muffled pops cracked through the still air.

Micah's expression didn't have time to change. The first bullet took him in the left cheek. The second tore through his forehead. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, collapsing backward without a sound. Blood pattered onto the windowsill.

But the other prisoners saw it all and shouted in alarm.

"What the hell—!"

"Sheriff! Sheriff!! Someone just shot a person here!"

Shouts echoed through the cell block. And upstairs, the loud sound of footsteps could be heard.

"Go! GO!" came the sharp bark of the Sheriff above.

Caleb didn't wait. He shoved the revolver back into his satchel, turned on his heel, and sprinted toward Stark. Already, boots were pounding across wooden floorboards above.

He vaulted into the saddle and dug his heels in.

"Yah!"

Stark bolted into motion, hooves clapping on cobblestone as they sped away from the sheriff's office. Gunshots rang out behind him, deputies firing blindly from the front door, but none found their mark.

Caleb didn't look back.

He tore through the northern road, swerving past boulders and weaving between trees, the cool night air slicing against his face. Within minutes, Strawberry was behind him, and he was galloping into the forested slopes east of Wallace Station.

By the time he reached the outer treeline, he slowed Stark to a trot. He patted her neck, steadying his breathing.

"You did perfect, girl," he murmured, pulling her reins to lead her into a thicket where they'd be hidden from the road.

He made a second camp in the same quiet fashion, no fire this time. Just the rustling of grass, the distant call of an owl, and the steady beat of his own heart finally slowing to normal.

Micah Bell was dead.

One more future threat was removed from the board.

He didn't feel joy. He didn't feel regret. Just a cold satisfaction.

He knew what Micah would've become. The betrayal, the deaths he would've caused, the friends he would've sold out. Caleb had stopped all that in one clean moment. One more path was carved into the strange second life he was building.

As he was thinking so, suddenly Caleb saw his system interface flicker into existence in front of him. The blue tinted frame filled with white letters that shifted and pulsed softly in the dark.

[World Trajectory Altered: Micah Bell Eliminated]

Due to the death of Micah Bell, the trajectory of the world has shifted dramatically.

Attribute Increased: Luck 5 → 6

Skill Level Up: Sneaking Lvl 1 → Lvl 2

New Skill Acquired: Persuasion (Lvl 2)

Caleb blinked at the screen, then let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

A grim smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, one not born from joy, but from validation.

He'd done it. He'd killed Micah Bell and the world noticed.

The rarest attribute of all, Luck, had finally climbed a notch. Caleb had tried nearly everything over the past weeks to find ways to increase it, challenges, poker bets, blind fire shots, dangerous hunts. But nothing had worked. And now, just like that, fate had answered in the form of blood.

And Persuasion? That was a skill he could put to immediate use. The system had called it a reward, likely linked to the way he'd lied so convincingly to Micah moments before killing him or a skill he gained as Micah at the latter part of the game, persuade Dutch to believe him.

"Damn right I earned it," he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing with renewed purpose.

He closed the system with a thought. The glowing interface faded, leaving only the soft rustle of wind through the trees and the distant hoot of an owl.

After basking in that feeling for a moment longer, Caleb stood, brushing his hands off on his trousers.

Time to clean up.

He stripped off the plain clothes piece by piece, the linen coat, the worn vest, the loose boots, the forgettable hat and wiped the mud off his face using the dirty cotton shirt.

Once his face was clean, he retrieved his Vaquero Piece by piece, Caleb Thorne put it on himself.

He looked like the man who'd left Valentine again, but nobody would believe that same man had crept through Strawberry and assassinated a man behind bars. That drifter had been someone else entirely.

He gathered the dirty clothes and placed them in a shallow firepit. With flint and steel, he lit the edge and stepped back as the flames slowly consumed the garments.

The fire crackled softly, eating away the final traces of the disguise. Once only embers remained, he buried them under soil and leaves.

Caleb mounted Stark once more and took the trail eastward, riding through the moonlit woods in steady silence.

By the time he reached Cumberland Falls, the sky had begun to pale with the first hints of dawn. The waterfall roared nearby, a veil of mist trailing across the river's edge.

Caleb crossed the Dakota River and guided Stark into a grove where the treeline thickened, offering him cover. There, in that quiet solitude, he made camp again, no fire this time.

He pitched his tent low and set his bedroll inside, stripping down only to his shirt as he collapsed onto the worn canvas with a long exhale. Micah Bell was dead and no one knew. That thought comforted him as he finally drifted into sleep, his breathing steady and deep, the sound of the river in the distance like a lullaby.

________________________________

Name: Caleb Thorne

Age: 23

Body Attributes:

- Strength: 7/10

- Agility: 6/10

- Perception: 8/10

- Stamina: 7/10

- Charm: 5/10

- Luck: 5/10 → 6/10

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) → (Lvl 2)

- 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)

- Crafting (Lv1)

- Persuasion (Lvl 2) - New

Money: 629 dollars and 61 cents

Bank: 40 dollars, 2 gold bars, a large bag of jewelry, and 3 gold nuggets

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