If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
...
And the silence returned, not the same tense silence as before, but heavier. Accepting. Acknowledging what had been broken. They rode on without a word until the first shapes of Shady Belle appeared between the moss hung trees. The rotting columns. The half toppled statue. The cracked fountain basin filled with rainwater and a few drifting leaves.
Kieran and Pearson stood at the perimeter on guard duty. Pearson was the first to spot them through the trees.
"There! They're comin' back!" he shouted.
Kieran's relief burst out of him. "They're alive! They're all alive!"
He waved frantically toward the mansion. "They're back!"
From inside the mansion and the tents surrounding sounds of door or tents being rustled open.
Boots thudded on the old brick path.
People streamed toward the courtyard, Abigail wiping her hands on her apron, Karen rushing with anxious eyes, Tilly and Mary-Beth hurrying together, Molly stepping out with wringing hands, Miss Grimshaw already glaring at any sign of injury, Reverend Swanson stumbling forward with concern, and Strauss carefully adjusting his glasses as he joined the crowd.
Caleb entered the perimeter first, slowing Morgan to a gentle trot. Arthur and Hosea followed, then the others poured in behind them like a battered procession.
But the moment they stopped, everyone saw Javier.
Slumped.
Blood crusted on his shirt.
His hand pressed to his ribs.
John swung out of the saddle. "Easy, Javier. We got you."
He and Bill helped Javier off his horse. Javier hissed in pain, legs wobbling. The moment Javier's boots touched the ground, Hosea barked. Miss Grimshaw! Reverend Swanson! Over here, now! He needs treatment."
Miss Grimshaw snapped instantly, "Reverend! Help me get him inside! Move, you old fool!"
Reverend Swanson jumped. "Yes! Yes, of course!"
They rushed to Javier's side, Grimshaw lifting his arm over her shoulder, Swanson supporting the other side as they half walked, half dragged him toward the mansion doors.
Abigail hurried straight for John, her voice sharp with fear. "John! Are you hurt? You look, there's blood all over you!"
John huffed, embarrassed at the attention. "Ain't my blood, Abigail. I'm fine."
"You sure?" she demanded, grabbing his chin and inspecting him like a mother checking a stubborn child.
"Abigail, c'mon, I'm, ow! Quit pokin' me!"
She pulled back only after verifying every limb. "You're lucky."
John gave a sheepish half smile. "Ain't that the truth."
Mary-Beth, meanwhile, rushed toward Caleb. "Caleb! Are you hurt?!"
Caleb blinked, surprised by the earnest worry in her eyes. "I'm all right. Just dirty. Maybe bruised. But nothin' bad."
She narrowed her eyes skeptically. "You're sure? Not even a graze?"
"Promise," he said.
Mary-Beth breathed out hard, relief softening her shoulders. "Good. I was worried sick."
Caleb rubbed the back of his neck, awkward. "Sorry about that."
"Don't be," she said, almost scolding. "You and the others managed to return safely, that's more than enough."
Around them, the tension in camp eased slightly, just slightly, as the sight of their loved ones alive managed to cut through the exhaustion. Then Hosea stepped forward to speak, taking command as naturally as breathing.
"Everyone!" he called out. "Listen up. We're going to take the night to rest, but at the same time, we start packing up. Tomorrow night, we move north. Pinkertons are on us hard and fast, we cannot stay here any longer—"
He didn't get the chance to finish.
Because Dutch, as though awakening from a trance, finally spoke. His voice was sharp, cutting, brittle as cracking ice.
"And who decided that?!"
Everything froze.
Dutch stepped forward, finally speaking for the first time since the battle.
His eyes were narrowed, but behind them lived something wild and cracked.
"Who," Dutch repeated slowly, "decided we're movin' north? Who decided when? Because I don't recall givin' that order. And have you all forgotten the fortune we left buried in Blackwater? We are not going anywhere until we have that money!"
The courtyard sank into a thick, uncomfortable stillness.
Hosea didn't flinch, though his heart sank. "Dutch, we have to be reasonable—"
"Reasonable?" Dutch snapped. "Reasonable would've been stickin' to my plan before everyone ran off chasin' trouble!"
Arthur's jaw tightened. "Dutch…"
Dutch turned to him sharply. "Don't you start."
The others, Sadie, Charles, John, Sean, and Lenny, said nothing. Their silence wasn't loyalty.
It was judgment.
Hosea calmly stepped forward. "Dutch, we're exhausted. Javier's hurt. Everyone's shaken. We need time."
Dutch stared at him like he'd never seen him before. "You go behind my back now? You take decisions away from me?"
Caleb opened his mouth but Hosea subtly raised a hand for him to stay quiet.
"Dutch," Hosea said, voice soft but steady, "we're your family. Not your soldiers."
Dutch's eye twitched.
A small movement.
Barely noticeable.
But dangerous.
Arthur finally stepped in, tone firm. "We didn't go behind you, Dutch. We're tryin' to make sure we don't lose people. Javier almost died."
Dutch's gaze flicked past him, cold, sharp, straight toward Caleb.
"And you," Dutch said. "You've been talkin' a lot lately."
Caleb held his ground. "Only to keep people alive."
"That so?" Dutch's voice had a dark edge. "Funny how everyone listens to you."
Arthur's hand slowly moved to rest near his holster, not to draw, but to be ready.
Charles shifted his stance subtly, blocking Sadie in case she lunged.
Lenny swallowed.
Bill stepped back, torn between guilt and fear.
Javier, from inside the mansion doorway, weakly called out, "Dutch… hermano… please…"
Dutch didn't look at him.
Everyone in the courtyard felt it, that invisible snap as something vital inside Dutch, something woven through decades of loyalty and brotherhood, finally tore in half.
Hosea stepped closer, his voice gentler than anyone expected. "Dutch… rest. Please. None of this has to be decided tonight."
Dutch's breath trembled. The others saw it, the war inside him. Fear vs. control. Love vs. paranoia. Family vs. ego.
He looked at Hosea.
At Arthur.
At the broken circle around him.
And for a fleeting moment, just a blink, there was something human in his eyes.
Then it vanished.
"Fine," Dutch muttered, voice brittle. "Rest. Do what you want."
He turned sharply and walked toward the mansion.
He went inside the mansion.
Alone.
The creaking boards of the porch he step on echoed like a warning.
Hosea rubbed his forehead. "This is it," he whispered. "He's slipping."
Arthur didn't deny it. "Feels like we're holdin' a wagon with busted wheels. And Dutch keeps beatin' the horse instead of fixin' the axle."
Caleb finally spoke. "What do we do?"
Hosea looked at him, really looked.
"You keep doin' what you're doin'," he said quietly. "Talk to Arthur. Talk to John. Keep everyone steady. Keep Dutch from makin' a move that kills us all."
Caleb nodded once. "I will."
Arthur stepped closer to him. "You did good today. Better'n good. Don't let Dutch twist that."
Caleb offered a tired smile. "I ain't worried about him twisting it. I'm worried about how far he'll go to stay in control."
Hosea let out a long, weary sigh, the kind that carried decades of disappointment, love, and heartbreak all bundled into one breath. Arthur mirrored it almost perfectly, two men who had held Dutch up for so long finally acknowledging, silently, that they could no longer carry the weight the same way.
Hosea placed a gentle hand on Caleb's shoulder. "Son… go get some rest. Your body needs it. You fought hard today. You kept a cool head. And you'll need your strength tomorrowz to help pack up, and to help guide us toward that Roanoke Valley place you mentioned on the way back."
Arthur nodded beside him. "Ain't no use worryin' about Dutch tonight. Leave that to us." He lifted his chin slightly in Hosea's direction. "We'll handle him. Somehow."
Hosea gave a soft, almost sad smile. "Yes. Let the two of us worry about Dutch. You trust us, right?"
Caleb let out a slow breath. He truly did trust them, after all, they had already shown they were breaking free from the chains of blind faith and devotion to Dutch, seeing him now with clear, unclouded eyes instead of worshipful ones.
"I trust you both," Caleb said quietly.
"Good," Hosea murmured. "Now go on. Rest."
Caleb nodded. He gave them both a grateful look before turning toward the mansion. His legs felt heavier than he'd expected, exhaustion seeping in now that he finally had permission to stop holding himself upright through sheer adrenaline and necessity.
The porch creaked beneath his boots. Faint candlelight leaked through some of the boarded windows, casting long shadows across the overgrown courtyard. Inside, muffled voices could be heard, Grimshaw's commanding tone and Swanson's stammering responses as they treat Javier, the rustling of Abigail fussing over John somewhere upstairs.
Caleb headed straight toward the bathroom in the back corner of the mansion. A wooden barrel filled with fresh water waited for use, Pearson must've filled it earlier before sundown. A few towels hung over a line. A bar of the gang's shared soap, rough and coarse like most things in 1899, sat on a small wooden table beside a bowl for scooping water.
He peeled off his clothes, shirt stiff with mud and sweat and dried blood that wasn't his. The air felt cooler on his skin than he expected. He dipped the bowl, poured the clean cold water over his shoulders, letting it run down his back. The grime loosened, the tension started to melt, and each splash stole away the weight of the battle bit by bit.
He scrubbed with the soap, harsh, lye heavy, stinging slightly over scrapes, but the smell of it felt familiar, grounding. When the water ran clearer, he rinsed one final time, then reached for the towel and dried himself off.
His body felt lighter afterward, refreshed even despite the fatigue.
He pulled on his outfit again, tightening the belt and brushing water droplets off his collar. Then he stepped out into the hallway and made his way to his room upstairs.
But as he rounded the corner and reached the landing, he stopped short.
Mary-Beth was standing there.
Right in front of his door.
Her hands clasped together, thumbs fidgeting. Her head down slightly, eyes lifting only when she heard his footsteps. She looked anxious… and relieved… and something else he couldn't immediately name.
He smiled softly as he walked closer. "Mary-Beth? Why're you standin' in front of my room, sweetheart?"
As he reached her, he gently lifted a hand and rubbed the top of her head, slow and affectionate.
Mary-Beth leaned into the touch almost instinctively, her cheeks already pink. Her voice was soft when she answered, barely rising above the low hum of noise echoing from downstairs.
"I… I'm still worried. About everything you and the others went through. Seeing Javier like that. Hearing gunshots from afar. Watching the camp panic…" She swallowed hard. "Was it really that dire out there?"
Caleb's expression shifted into something somber and honest. He nodded.
"Every group was ambushed," he said quietly. "Me and John had the smallest group of attackers. Much smaller than Arthur's group."
Mary-Beth's eyes widened in alarm. "How could that be?"
"I've got no idea," Caleb admitted, shaking his head. "But we were lucky, I guess. We were the only pair. Arthur's group had three. Charles's group had three. Dutch's group had three. More guns for Pinkertons to focus on."
Mary-Beth pressed a hand over her heart, her face full of worry. "I'm just glad you're safe. You and John… you both…" She stopped herself mid-sentence.
The way she paused was strange, soft, breathy, and hesitant.
Caleb blinked. "What, darling?"
Mary-Beth's face lit up with a sudden crimson flush, full and burning across her cheeks, all the way to the tips of her ears. Caleb paused, confused, and leaned in slightly.
"What's wrong?" he murmured. "Why's your face all red all of a sudden?" He reached up gently and tapped her forehead. "You sick?" Mary-Beth sucked in a sharp breath, chest rising and falling in a small panic. Then she steadied herself, looked up at him through her lashes, and spoke in a trembling, shy voice.
...
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 3)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 4)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 3)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 3)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 2)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 3)
- 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: 3,655 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 104,669 dollars and 72 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 64 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
Bank: -