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By installing a federally supported Mayor in Valentine, they could attempt to choke Caleb's supply lines, heavily tax his auction yards, and make life an absolute, bureaucratic nightmare for the Thorne Holding Company in New Hanover. "They think they are clever," Caleb murmured softly, looking out over the muddy streets of the town. "They think they can build a tollbooth on my highway."
"Mr. Thorne, if a federal Mayor takes over this town, he's going to audit the Sheriff's department!" Sheriff Malloy panicked, his self preservation instincts completely taking over. "He'll look at the ledgers! He'll see the kickbacks, the blind eyes we've turned... it will ruin our entire arrangement! He could shut down the auction yards!"
Caleb turned his gaze back to Sheriff Malloy, the cold, calculating smile widening into a look of absolute, terrifying brilliance.
"He won't shut down anything, Curtis, because he will never set foot in this state," Caleb declared calmly.
Sheriff Malloy blinked, utterly confused. "But... the federal mandate—"
"A federal mandate can be overridden by a preemptive, highly publicized, heavily funded democratic election," Caleb interrupted smoothly, stepping closer to the sweating lawman. "If the people of Valentine officially elect a Mayor before the federal bureaucrats can push their paperwork through the state legislature, Washington cannot legally intervene without causing a massive states rights constitutional crisis. A crisis President McKinley will never allow to happen."
"An election?" Sheriff Malloy asked, still lost. "But we don't have any political candidates in Valentine. The only men with any influence are the saloon owners and... and me."
Caleb reached out, clapping a heavy, definitive hand onto Malloy's shoulder. The grip was tight, an undeniable physical manifestation of the tycoon's power.
"Exactly, Curtis. You," Caleb smiled, his voice dropping into the hypnotic, persuasive cadence of the devil offering a deal.
Sheriff Malloy's eyes widened to the size of saucers. "Me? Mayor of Valentine?"
"Why not?" Caleb asked reasonably, leaning in. "You know the pulse of this valley. You know the people. And most importantly, you know how to work with the Thorne Holding Company. You are going to resign as Sheriff when it was announced, Curtis. You are going to announce your emergency candidacy for the newly incorporated office of Mayor of Valentine, running on a platform of the local townsfolk against federal overreach."
"But... an election campaign costs money, Mr. Thorne! I don't have the capital to fund rallies, or bribe the local press, or—"
"I have the capital, Curtis," Caleb cut him off seamlessly, his eyes flashing with the promise of infinite wealth. "The Thorne Holding Company will anonymously fund your entire campaign. We will buy the local newspapers. We will throw massive, catered rallies at the saloons. We will guarantee every rancher in this valley votes for you. You will win in a landslide."
Caleb paused, letting the sheer magnitude of the offer sink in. He knew exactly what drove a man like Sheriff Malloy.
"Think about it, Curtis," Caleb whispered, weaving a web of pure, intoxicating corruption. "A Mayor's salary is triple what a Sheriff makes. You will control the municipal zoning laws. You will control the city treasury. The skims, the administrative fees, the sheer, unchecked political power you will wield in a booming industrial town... you will be a king in the Heartlands. All I ask in return is that the Thorne Holding Company continues to operate without any municipal interference, and that our Wapiti workers are treated with the utmost respect when they come into town."
Sheriff Malloy stood frozen on the platform, his mind reeling as the terrifying vision of federal prison was instantly replaced by visions of massive wealth, tailored suits, and absolute political power. The sheer, naked greed completely eclipsed any lingering doubts.
"I..." Sheriff Malloy swallowed hard, a greedy, ambitious light igniting in his eyes. He nodded his head rapidly. "I can do that. Yes. Mayor Curtis Malloy. It has a ring to it. If it protects our deal, Mr. Thorne, and if it keeps Washington out of our business... I'll run. I'll win."
"I know you will, Mr. Mayor," Caleb smiled, giving the man's shoulder one final pat before stepping past him toward the train. "My lawyers will wire the campaign funds to a blind trust at the Valentine bank by tomorrow morning. Start making speeches."
Caleb walked up the wooden steps and entered the luxurious parlor car, leaving a stunned, deeply corrupted, and highly motivated Curtis Malloy standing on the platform.
Arthur was already sitting at the mahogany table, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He had watched the entire exchange through the window.
"You just bought a town a Mayor," Arthur noted dryly, taking a sip of his coffee.
"I bought an insurance policy, Arthur," Caleb corrected smoothly, taking his seat at the head of the table. "The Bureau of Indian Affairs tried to play chess with me. I just flipped the board."
Vincenzo stepped into the car, pulling the heavy steel doors shut, sealing them inside the rolling fortress.
"We are clear to depart, Boss," the underboss reported.
"Take us home, Vincenzo," Caleb ordered, leaning back in his leather chair, a deep, profound satisfaction settling over him.
The train let out a final, deafening blast of its whistle, the massive steel wheels grinding against the tracks. The train pulled out of Valentine, leaving the Heartlands behind. Caleb had secured his monopoly, he had saved a dying culture, and he had completely outmaneuvered the federal government.
As the massive, armored locomotive tore southward, leaving the freezing rain and the muddy streets of Valentine far behind, the rhythmic, heavy clack of the iron wheels against the steel tracks became a soothing, predictable metronome. Inside the parlor car, Vincenzo and Arthur were pouring themselves fresh drinks from the crystal decanters, quietly discussing the terrifying brilliance of the political coup Caleb had just orchestrated.
Caleb, however, was not resting. The acquisition of the Heartlands and the preparation to install of a corrupted local mayor were massive victories, but Caleb knew better than to leave his flanks exposed.
The Bureau of Indian Affairs had attempted a flanking maneuver, which meant they were actively communicating with the State Department and the state legislature. The bureaucracy was moving against him.
He needed to cut the head off the snake before it could even strike.
Caleb stood up from the mahogany conference table, buttoning his tailored suit jacket. "Excuse me, gentlemen. I have a rather urgent radio call that I need to make. Ensure the capos are prepared for our arrival in Saint Denis."
"You got it, Boss," Vincenzo nodded, raising his glass in a brief salute.
Caleb walked to the rear of the parlor car, unlocking a heavy, reinforced steel door that led into his private, customized communications suite. The room was small, heavily soundproofed with thick acoustic padding, and dominated entirely by a massive, state of the art T&T radio transceiver.
The machine was a marvel of the twentieth century, bristling with copper coils, heavy brass toggle switches, and a bank of glass vacuum tubes that glowed with a latent, amber warmth.
He sat down in the bolted leather chair in front of the console. He flipped the primary power switch. The vacuum tubes flared to life, humming with a deep, vibrating electrical current that resonated in Caleb's chest.
He reached out, his fingers dancing across the frequency dials, bypassing the standard commercial and logistical channels, dialing directly into the heavily encrypted, restricted military frequency that connected solely to the capital of the United States.
He pulled the heavy, wire mesh microphone toward him and depressed the brass transmission key.
"This is Caleb Thorne from Saint Denis, requesting Priority One Executive communication. Requesting immediate connection to the Executive Mansion." Caleb spoke, his voice calm, clipped, and projecting absolute authority.
The heavy static hissed through the speaker box for nearly a full minute as the signal bounced across the relay towers stretching up the Mississippi River and across the eastern seaboard. Finally, a sharp, professional voice cut through the white noise.
"Executive Mansion routing desk, we read you, Saint Denis actual. Please hold the line. The President is currently in a closed door briefing, but your standing orders require immediate notification. Please hold."
Caleb leaned back in his chair, releasing the transmission key. He pulled his silver pocket watch from his vest, checking the time. It was late afternoon. McKinley would likely be in the middle of reviewing the daily dispatches from the Boxer Rebellion in China or managing the endless domestic tariff disputes.
Three minutes passed in the humming silence of the communications suite.
Then, a heavy click echoed from the speaker, followed by the weary, unmistakable voice of the Commander in Chief.
"Caleb. This is a rather unexpected pleasure,"President McKinley's voice crackled through the radio, carrying the heavy, exhausted warmth of a man who carried the world on his shoulders. "I was just reviewing the naval supply manifests from the Pacific fleet. To what do I owe the honor of a priority transmission on a Tuesday afternoon?"
Caleb smiled, a genuine, polite expression that did not reach his cold, calculating eyes. He depressed the transmission key.
"Good afternoon, Mr. President," Caleb greeted smoothly, leaning into the microphone. "I apologize for interrupting your briefings. I know the situation in the Qing Dynasty and the entire nation requires your undivided attention. I simply wanted to check in. How is the air in Washington today? And more importantly, how is your health?"
"The air in Washington is as thick and suffocating as ever, I'm afraid," McKinley chuckled softly, grateful for the brief reprieve from his cabinet. "But my health is holding. My doctors are constantly hovering, but I assure you, I am still standing. How are things in the South? How is Mary-Beth? That pregnancy must be progressing quite far by now."
"She is radiant, Mr. President. The pregnancy is progressing perfectly. We are expecting a healthy, strong child to inherit this empire," Caleb replied, his voice softening genuinely at the mention of his wife. "She sends her warmest regards to you and Mrs. McKinley."
"Please, pass my deepest congratulations back to her. Always so polite she is," McKinley said warmly. The President paused for a moment, the natural, friendly rapport between the two men flowing easily over the wire. "But I know you, Caleb. You do not initiate this priority transmission just to ask about my health and share domestic bliss. You are a man of business. What is on your mind?"
Caleb took a slow, deliberate breath, shifting his posture. The pleasantries were officially concluded. The chess match was beginning.
"I am calling regarding the frontier town of Valentine, situated in the Heartlands of New Hanover," Caleb began, his voice dropping into a solemn, measured tone, carrying a hint of genuine concern. "I have just concluded a rather extensive economic tour of the region. As you know, the Thorne Holding Company has recently centralized the agricultural and livestock infrastructure of that valley."
"Yes, I am well aware of your... aggressive acquisitions in the Midwest," McKinley noted, a hint of cautious respect in his voice. "You move faster than Standard Oil, Caleb."
"Which is why I am calling you, Mr. President," Caleb said, utilizing the President's first name to establish the personal, elite nature of their relationship. "I have recently been informed by my political contacts in the state capital that there is a sudden irregular push to instantly upgrade Valentine from an unincorporated frontier settlement into a full fledged, officially incorporated municipality."
Caleb paused, letting the silence hang over the radio waves for a fraction of a second before delivering the final strike.
"Furthermore, I am told that because of this sudden incorporation, there is a plan to bypass the local democratic process entirely and install a federally appointed Mayor to oversee the town. I wanted to ask you directly, Mr. President... is this the official policy of your administration? Are you planning to place a federal tollbooth in the center of my operational headquarters?"
On the other end of the line, sitting in the Presidential Office, President McKinley froze.
The heavy, suffocating silence that transmitted over the radio was profound. Caleb could practically hear the gears turning in the President's brilliant, political mind as he processed the information.
"A federally appointed Mayor in Valentine?" McKinley asked, his voice suddenly sharp, completely stripped of its previous warmth. "Caleb, I have absolutely no knowledge of this. There has been no executive memorandum crossing my desk regarding the municipal incorporation of New Hanover settlements."
"Are you certain, Mr. President?" Caleb pressed softly, flawlessly playing the role of the concerned ally. "Because my intelligence indicates that this initiative is being aggressively spearheaded by a joint coalition between the State Department and the Bureau of Indian Affairs."
"The Bureau of Indian Affairs..." McKinley whispered over the wire.
Then, a sudden realization hit the President. He realized exactly what was happening. Commissioner Henry Cass, thoroughly humiliated and intimidated by Caleb over the Wapiti reservation transfer just days prior, had retreated to Washington and immediately sought a backdoor method of retaliation.
Cass had clearly colluded with mid level bureaucrats in the State Department to fast track Valentine's incorporation, aiming to install a federal puppet to choke Caleb's supply lines and assert government dominance over the Thorne monopoly.
And they had done it completely behind the President's back, risking the most vital, delicate, and technologically essential corporate alliance the United States government possessed right now, that have advanced United States standing in the global world.
"Those arrogant, short sighted, bureaucratic fools," McKinley hissed, a sudden, rare string of vicious curses echoing through the speaker box. The President of the United States was absolutely furious. "God damn them. They are playing petty political games with the bedrock of our national infrastructure."
Caleb remained perfectly silent, allowing the President's anger to fully materialize against his own agencies.
"Caleb, you must listen to me," McKinley said, his voice returning to the microphone, thick with a genuine, desperate sincerity. "I had no prior knowledge of this maneuver. I did not authorize this, and I do not support it. This is a rogue retaliatory action by Commissioner Cass. Please, accept my deepest apologies for this inexcusable overreach."
"I accept your apology, Mr. President," Caleb replied smoothly, his tone forgiving but carrying the immense weight of a man who held all the cards. "I suspected you were not involved. You are a man of vision, and you understand the value of our partnership. But the paperwork is already moving through the state legislature."
"I will crush it," McKinley vowed instantly, his voice ringing with the kind of executive authority he have. "I will have the Attorney General issue an immediate injunction. I will personally fire Commissioner Cass before the sun sets. I will bury this initiative so deep it will never see the light of day. Caleb, please... do not do anything reckless. Do not mobilize your private forces. Let me handle this from Washington."
Caleb smiled a dark, brilliant smile in the isolation of the communications suite. He had the President exactly where he wanted him.
"I appreciate your swiftness, Mr. President, and I assure you, I have no intention of doing anything reckless," Caleb said, his voice a soothing, hypnotic purr. "But... I must ask you to stay your hand. Do not issue the injunction. Do not stop the incorporation."
"What? Caleb, why?" McKinley asked, bewildered. "They are trying to build a cage around your primary transit hub!"
"Because a cage only works if you control the door, Mr. President," Caleb explained, his genius corporate strategy unspooling perfectly. "Valentine's incorporation into a full fledged city is actually incredibly beneficial to my long term business interests. It provides municipal funding for roads, it legitimizes the rail depot, and it creates a stable economic environment for my workers. I want Valentine to become a city. I simply refuse to let the federal government choose its leader."
"You want to fight the federal appointment," McKinley deduced slowly.
"I don't want to fight it. I want to obliterate it," Caleb corrected coldly. "I am going to fund a preemptive, publicized, and local democratic election. I have already secured a local candidate, a man who represents the independent spirit of the frontier, and more importantly, a man who is entirely supportive to the Thorne Holding Company. By the time the State Department realizes what is happening, my candidate will have won in a landslide. If the federal bureaucrats try to invalidate a democratic election to install their puppet, it will trigger a states rights constitutional crisis that will tear this administration apart. They will be forced to accept my Mayor."
McKinley let out a long, heavy breath over the radio. He was listening to a private citizen actively coordinating the hostile political takeover of an American city, completely subverting federal authority.
"Caleb... this is incredibly dangerous," McKinley warned, his voice tight with anxiety. "You are playing with fire. You are manipulating the foundational democratic process to solidify a corporate monopoly. If the press gets wind of this, if the progressive reformers find out you are buying elections..."
"The press will report what I tell them to report, because I own the paper they print on," Caleb stated, his voice dropping into a chilling, absolute register. "I am informing you of this, Mr. President, out of the deep, abiding respect I have for you, and because our working relationship has been incredibly fruitful for this nation. You need my weapons for your armies. You need my radios for your government, army, and citizens. And most importantly... you need my company and vision to maintain your dominance in Asia."
Caleb leaned closer to the microphone. It was time to show the teeth. "I do not want to ruin our friendship, Mr. President," Caleb whispered, his voice smooth as silk but laced with a lethal, apocalyptic threat. "But if the Bureau of Indian Affairs continues to press this issue, if they attempt to force their federal puppet onto my land... I will be forced to view it as an act of hostility against my business interest."
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl MAX)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Dead Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Bow (Lvl MAX)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl MAX)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl MAX)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl MAX)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 100x100x100)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl MAX)
- Leadership (Lvl MAX)
Money: 2,772 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 283,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 74 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 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, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern, & 3 Diamonds
Bank: -