If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
The moment they dismounted, several gang members rushed over. Abigail, Tilly, and Mary-Beth stared wide eyed at the cloth covered body tied to Charles's horse. Uncle scratched his head, muttering under his breath, and even Pearson emerged from his chuckwagon, apron smeared with grease, peering curiously. "What the hell happened?" Bill barked, pushing through the gathering crowd.
"Where's Dutch?" John asked.
Arthur raised his voice sharply. "Enough. Dutch'll be back soon with the others. We'll explain everything then."
Charles carefully handed the reins to Caleb and began untying Micah's corpse. Caleb held Morgan steady, nose wrinkling at the worsening stench. The gang watched in tense silence as Charles and Arthur hauled the body down and dragged it toward the edge of camp, well away from the tents and wagons.
"I'll help dig the grave," Caleb volunteered, earning a brief, grateful nod from Charles.
They set to work at the tree line, their shovels biting into the earth as the sun slipped lower. The sweat on Caleb's brow wasn't just from the labor, it was from the gnawing uncertainty curling in his gut.
By the time Dutch, Hosea, and Javier rode into camp, the grave was ready. The gang assembled, faces shadowed by firelight and worry. Dutch dismounted with his usual flourish, sweeping his coat back to addres the group with that old, familiar charisma.
The moment Dutch lifted his arms, the flickering campfire casting long shadows across his face, the gang fell into an uneasy hush. Caleb shifted his weight, folding his arms across his chest as Arthur stood silent beside him, face grim and tight with suspicion.
The grave yawned open at the edge of camp, Micah's body laid inside with rough respect, his presence gone but his stench lingering in the cool evening air.
Dutch's voice rolled over them, warm and practiced.
"My fellow brothers, sisters…" He swept his eyes across them, Abigail clutching Jack a little tighter with John beside them, Mary-Beth and Karen rubbing Tilly's arm, Sean and Lenny holding a repeater in his hand.
Uncle swaying slightly with a bottle in hand, Susan put out her cigarette, Swanson face place and swaying, Strauss was silent, and Pearson watching from near the chuckwagon, arms crossed over his stained apron.
Bill scowled down at the dirt, but his head lifted as Dutch's tone deepened, as if the words alone could bind him again.
"Today, we've suffered a great loss," Dutch continued, his voice honeyed with just enough sorrow to sound genuine. "Micah was… a complicated man." A faint scoff rippled through the camp, but Dutch kept talking. "But he was one of us. He fought for us, bled for us, took risks when many wouldn't. And now, we lay him to rest."
Arthur let out a breath through his nose, jaw ticking. Caleb felt the knot in his stomach tighten, not from grief, but from the bitter taste of a truth that Dutch wouldn't admit and every word rang hollow to him.
"We mustn't let this loss shake our belief, do not let Micah's death shake your faith in me, in us!" Dutch pressed on, stepping forward, his arms stretched wide like a preacher on Sunday. "Now, more than ever, I need your faith. Your trust. I have a plan for us, all of us, and soon, this situation will turn much better. We'll come out of this stronger. Together."
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then, slowly, a few claps, Javier, Bill, then Pearson, then Mary-Beth, Karen, and Tilly, hesitant but swayed. Abigail gave a tight, reluctant smile. Susan nodded firmly. Even Uncle managed a half hearted cheer.
Caleb watched it all with cold detachment. He'd seen it before when playing the game, how Dutch wrapped them up in his words, polished and smooth as river stones, until they forgot the cracks beneath and how slowly it wouldn't matter anymore as the crack was to big to ignore.
Arthur's shoulders were stiff, his mouth pressed thin. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, and Caleb knew that Arthur's doubt was no longer a flicker, it was a fire starting to burn.
When the grave was filled and the last clumps of earth patted down, the gang drifted away in twos and threes. The night settled over camp with the smell of woodsmoke, sweat, and the sharp bite of suspicion.
But Arthur lingered.
"Javier," Arthur called out softly.
Javier, halfway to his tent, paused, puzzled. "Yeah, Arthur?"
Caleb and Charles didn't move, exchanging a quick glance but staying back. Arthur's voice was quiet, but edged with something sharp.
"Mind stayin' a minute? Got something I need to ask."
Javier tilted his head, eyebrows knitting. "Sure. What's on your mind?" He walked back, arms swinging casually, but his eyes flicked between the three of them.
Arthur crossed his arms, weighing his words. "Back in town… when you and Charles went into the sheriff's office. Is it true… from the way it looks, Dutch was the one who shot first? At the sheriff. And the deputy. And that their gun was holstered."
The question hung in the air like a blade.
Javier blinked, glancing at Charles, who stood silent, arms folded. "Yeah," Javier admitted, scratching his jaw. "From how it looks, Dutch shot first."
Arthur's jaw tightened. Caleb saw his fingers flex, then curl into fists at his side.
"But," Javier added quickly, "I think there's more to it. You know Dutch… he wouldn't just draw like that. No, I think they goaded him. Mocked him. Mocked Micah's death. You know how Dutch gets when someone disrespects him. Disrespects the gang."
Arthur exhaled slowly, the weight of the words pressing down on him. Caleb could see it, the conflict tearing through him, with the seed of doubt that had been planted now took firm root, its tendrils reaching into the very core of his loyalty to Dutch.
He wrestled internally as the loyalty, trust, and faith built over years warring against the creeping realization that Dutch wasn't the man he once believed in.
Caleb stayed silent, watching. To him, Javier's words were the desperate reach of a man trying to patch the cracks in his world. He recognized the familiar pattern of denial, the desperate attempt to reconcile the Dutch he admired with the increasingly erratic and violent actions he had witnessed, something Caleb had seen in the game.
Charles remained stone-faced, but Caleb caught the subtle shift in his eyes, the quiet calculation behind them. Charles was thinking. And unlike Javier, Charles had the will to face the truth when it came, and confront the uncomfortable realities in his face.
After a heavy and long pause, Arthur finally nodded. "Alright. Thanks, Javier. I understand and… you maybe right. Don't share this with anyone else. I talk to Hosea about this."
Javier gave a half smile, half frown, then clapped Arthur lightly on the shoulder. "Sure thing, hermano. You know where to find me." He drifted away into the night, whistling softly under his breath.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Arthur let out a low sigh and rubbed his face.
Charles spoke first, voice low. "You don't believe him."
Arthur shook his head, a tired chuckle escaping his throat. "I don't know what I believe anymore." He looked at Caleb, eyes sharp. "But you, you seem to have a pretty good read on all this. What do you think?"
Caleb met his gaze steadily. "I think Javier's lying to himself. And you know it too."
Arthur let the words hang between them. The fire crackled in the distance, voices rising and falling around camp as the others tried to forget the weight of the day.
Charles stepped forward, folding his arms. "Dutch is acting strange, Arthur. Since Blackwater, I think we've all seen it. But we need to be smart about this. Hosea first. Then… we figure out what we do next ."
Arthur let out a rough laugh. "Ain't that the truth." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Alright. Get some rest, both of you. Tomorrow… tomorrow we talk to Hosea.*
As the three of them drifted apart, Caleb's mind buzzed with a thousand thoughts.
He slipped back to his tent, Morgan already settled near the edge of camp, tied and content. Caleb's fingers itched to check his revolver, his rifle, his supplies. The night felt heavy, like the calm before a storm.
Lying on his bedroll, staring up at the stars through the thin canvas, Caleb reflected on all he'd seen, on Dutch's speeches, Arthur's crumbling faith, and the path that lay ahead.
He knew how it played out in the game, the betrayal, the heartbreak, the collapse of everything they'd built. But this time, it was different on how it plays out. And from now, how things play out could be very different to what he knew in the game.
The fire crackled low outside, and the camp slowly fell into restless sleep. Caleb closed his eyes, fingers brushing the grip of his revolver, and let the darkness take him.
The morning came fast, the pale light of dawn slipping through the thin canvas of Caleb's tent. The air was sharp with the chill of early morning, heavy with the mingled scents of dew, woodsmoke, and horses. Caleb stirred as a rough hand shook his shoulder.
"C'mon, up," Arthur's voice rumbled low above him.
Caleb blinked his eyes open, the blurry world sharpening into focus. Arthur stood over him, already dressed, his hat tilted low, a familiar grim line set into his mouth.
With a grunt, Caleb sat up, stretching his arms over his head and rolling his shoulders until they popped. His muscles ached faintly from the tension of the night before, but the restless edge in his mind was sharper. Today was not going to be a quiet day.
Arthur waited without impatience, watching as Caleb stood, stretched his back with a crack, and tugged on his boots. Together, without exchanging much more than a nod, they made their way across the waking camp.
The sun was only beginning to crest the hills, casting golden light across the grass, making the dew shimmer like scattered diamonds.
The camp was coming alive slowly, Pearson banging around the chuckwagon, Uncle snoring still under his hat, Abigail fussing with Jack near the fire, and Susan already wrangling Swanson into some form of decency.
They saw Charles near Herr Strauss tent, stripped to his undershirt, methodically chopping logs for the campfire. Each strike of the axe was precise, clean, and efficient. A small stack of split wood sat to one side, neat and orderly, just like Charles.
Arthur raised a hand. "Mornin', Charles."
Charles paused mid swing, looking up with a small, quiet smile. "Arthur. Caleb. Mornin'." He set the axe down, wiped his hands on his trousers, and stepped toward them.
"Time to talk to Hosea," Arthur murmured.
Charles gave a short nod. "I'm ready."
The three of them made their way across the camp, boots crunching over frost hardened grass, toward the edge of the cliff where Hosea liked to sit in the mornings.
Hosea was there, as expected, perched on a fallen log, a tin cup of coffee cradled in his hands, his sharp eyes watching the sun rise over the valley below.
The faint lines of age around his eyes and mouth were softened by the quiet peace of the morning, but when he heard their approaching footsteps, he turned slightly, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips.
"Well, good morning to you boys," Hosea greeted, voice warm with the gravelly smoothness of someone who'd smoked for years but never quite let it slow him down. "Though judging by those long faces, I'm guessing this ain't just a friendly hello."
Arthur, Charles, and Caleb exchanged glances.
Arthur took a breath, stepped forward, and scratched at his jaw. "No, Hosea. There's something you oughta hear."
Hosea raised an eyebrow, his cup halfway to his lips. "Oh? And what might that be?"
Arthur exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. "It's about yesterday. The shootout in Strawberry."
At that, Hosea's hand paused. Then He took a slow sip before responding with his gaze sharpened, locking onto Arthur. "Go on."
Arthur laid it out, voice steady but edged with quiet frustration. "When we split up at the old cabin, you went one way with Dutch, Javier, and Charles, me and Caleb went back toward camp. On the ride back, Charles told me somethin'. Said from the looks of it Dutch shot first. Sheriff and deputy didn't even draw. And when I checked with Javier last night, he… confirmed it, more or less."
________________________________
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 6/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 5/10
- Luck: 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 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)
Money: 731 dollars and 61 cents
Bank: 40 dollars, 2 gold bars, a large bag of jewelry, and 3 gold nuggets