"That's more like it, son. You actually look like you work at the stables." Amos smirked, arms folded as Cain trudged back, shirt clinging to him, hands raw from the pitchfork.
"Thanks… I guess." Cain muttered, wiping his brow. "So what's next?"
Amos tilted his head, studying him. Most drifters who wandered through Valentine couldn't last half an hour in the muck, let alone come back asking for more. They usually bolted for easier work, saloons, shops, odd jobs that didn't leave you smelling like manure.
But Cain was still standing here, dirtied and tired but stubborn.
Amos scratched his beard. "Next, huh? Well, the mares need water. You handle the pump, fill the troughs. After that, maybe brush 'em down if they'll let you close."
Cain nodded without hesitation. "Alright. Show me."
Amos narrowed his eyes. There was something in the kid's tone, desperation maybe, or sheer determination. Hard to say which. But Amos had seen plenty of hands talk tough, only to vanish by sundown. Cain might've been cut from the same cloth. Or maybe not.
Cain didn't know it, but he had no room to fail. No coins in his pocket, no roof over his head, no place in this world at all. Working the stables wasn't just a job, it was survival.
"Fine," Amos said gruffly, jerking his thumb toward the pump. "Show me you can handle that, and maybe you'll stick around longer than the rest."
Cain straightened his back, squaring his shoulders. "I'll handle it."
Amos gave a short grunt, turning away. "We'll see, son. We'll see."
As Cain carried the first bucket toward the trough, he caught the snort of a restless mare watching him with wide, dark eyes. He tightened his grip, heart hammering.
'If I can't even win over a horse… how the hell am I gonna survive the rest of this world?'
Cain watched as the mare lowered her head, lips splashing against the trough. The sound of steady drinking filled the stable.
"Here," Amos said, stepping up beside him with a worn brush in hand. "Let me show you."
Cain took it carefully, watching as Amos demonstrated a slow, practiced stroke along the horse's neck and flank. "Nice and steady. Always start where they can see you. Don't go sneakin' up on a horse unless you want your ribs cracked."
Cain nodded, mimicking the movement. "Like this?"
"Mm. Slower. Horses can smell nerves, boy. You treat 'em like tools, they'll treat you like a stranger. You put respect in your work…" Amos leaned back, arms folded, watching. "…they'll give it back."
Cain slowed his strokes, steadying his breathing. He let the rhythm take over, brush down, lift, brush again. The mare flicked her ear once, then leaned into the motion with a soft huff, her weight shifting toward him.
A smile tugged at Cain's lips. Small, but genuine. For the first time since waking up in this strange, dangerous world, he felt grounded. Connected. Like maybe, just maybe, he could carve out a place here.
Amos noticed the change. The kid's shoulders weren't so stiff anymore, his hands not so clumsy. "Not bad, Cain," Amos said, his voice low but approving. "Not bad at all."
Cain glanced at him, still brushing. "Thanks. Means a lot."
"Don't thank me yet." Amos smirked faintly, pushing off the post. "You've still got stalls to muck, hooves to clean, feed to haul. If you last till sundown, then maybe I'll start thinkin' you're worth keepin'."
Cain nodded, determination burning quietly in his chest. "Then I'll last till sundown."
The mare gave a soft nicker, pressing her muzzle against his arm as if sealing the promise.
By the time the sun dipped low, Cain's body felt like lead. He'd carried feed, hauled buckets, brushed coats, and even wrestled with a stubborn gelding that nearly dragged him into the dirt. His stomach growled so loudly he swore the horses could hear it, but he pushed through.
During a short break, Amos had passed him a tin cup of water. Cain had downed it gratefully, but the ache in his gut reminded him what he truly lacked: food. Still, he endured, one task at a time, until the last stall was clean and the final horse settled for the evening.
"Huh," Amos muttered, leaning against the post as Cain approached, sweat-soaked and breathing hard. "Not bad, son. Not bad at all."
Cain wiped his brow, too tired to answer. Amos reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins and a folded paper note.
"Here," he said, dropping the pay into Cain's open hand. "Since it's your first day and you did more'n I figured, I'll give you a little extra." He tapped the coins with a finger. "That there's about two-fifty. More than enough for a bed, a hot meal, maybe even a drink if you're careful."
Cain blinked down at the money, relief flooding him. Food. Shelter. A chance.
"I will. Thank you, mister." He closed his hand tight around the pay. "I'll be back tomorrow."
Amos gave a slow nod, though his eyes lingered with a weight that wasn't quite trust. "We'll see if you're the kind that keeps his word."
Cain offered a faint smile, then turned, walking toward the glow of lanterns spilling from Valentine's saloon. The sound of piano keys, laughter, and shouting voices grew louder with every step.
Behind him, Amos watched until Cain vanished into the crowd, exhaling through his nose.
"You're a good kid," he murmured to the horses. "Let's just hope you keep that promise…"
Cain sank onto the barstool at Smithfield's Saloon, the weight of the day easing from his shoulders the moment he sat. His body ached, but the sight of food, any food, kept him upright.
"And what'll it be for you, mister?" the bartender asked, wiping a glass with a rag that looked only halfway clean.
Cain leaned against the counter. "Well… I'm new here. What does this place have to offer?"
The bartender rattled off a quick list: stew, roast beef, beans, bread, even whiskey if you had the coin. Cain didn't hesitate. He pointed at the cheapest meal and asked only for a glass of water.
Minutes later, a steaming bowl of stew and a hunk of bread landed in front of him. Cain dug in with quiet desperation, chewing slowly but savoring every bite. He kept his eyes down, not seeking conversation, not drawing attention. The saloon around him buzzed with life, men playing cards, drunken laughter, the plink of a piano in the corner.
When the bowl was scraped clean and the bread was gone, Cain wiped his mouth and cleared his throat. "Bartender," he said quietly, "I was wondering… are there any other jobs in town? I'm at the stables now, but the pay won't keep me standing for long."
The bartender gave him a long look, then leaned in with a knowing smirk. "Plenty of work for a willing hand. Post office always needs runners, letters in, letters out, folk need things delivered. Pays steady, not backbreaking either." He paused, lowering his voice. "Or, if you don't mind gettin' your hands dirty, Bob's butcher shop is always lookin' for help. If blood, guts, and bone don't bother you, you might find a spot there."
Cain nodded slowly, weighing the options. His stomach was finally full, but his future was still empty.
"Thanks," he said, sliding the empty bowl back.
The bartender tapped the counter with two fingers. "Just don't go starvin' yourself, stranger. Plenty die young out here 'cause they think they can do without."
Cain gave a faint smile. "Not planning on it."
A few minutes later, Cain counted the coins in his hand as the bartender slid the room key across the counter. The brass number "3" was stamped into the tag, worn smooth by countless other drifters who had passed through before him.
One dollar gone, just like that. He tucked the key into his pocket, the weight of his remaining $1.50 suddenly feeling lighter than a feather.
The hotel room was small and smelled faintly of smoke and old whiskey, but it had a bed, and that was enough. Cain sat on the edge, shoes still on, staring at the cracked ceiling.
"Post office in the morning, stables after that," he muttered to himself, trying to convince his body he had a plan. For the first time in weeks, he almost believed it.
But outside, the muffled noise of the saloon below carried on, laughter, drunken arguments, the shuffle of boots across the floorboards. Cain couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever be one of them: someone with enough coin in his pocket to waste on whiskey and poker. For now, though, survival was his only hand to play.
Sleep came slowly, and with it, the quiet resolve that tomorrow he'd start carving out his place in Valentine… one errand, one stable shift, one coin at a time.
...
Cain had half-hoped he'd open his eyes and find himself back in the comfort of his own bed. But when the first rays of sunlight crept through the dusty curtains, the truth hit him square in the chest, he was still here, still stuck in the world of Red Dead Redemption.
With a long sigh, he rubbed at his temples and pushed himself upright. "Might as well…" he muttered, rolling his shoulders before dropping into a few quick stretches and pushups. The stiff wooden floor wasn't much of a gym, but it was all he had.
Skipping breakfast to save coin, Cain stepped out into the waking town. His clothes drew stares, a white vest, beige trousers, and shoes better suited for a city street than Valentine's mud-churned roads. But Cain paid no mind. All that mattered now was the next dollar.
The post office took him on without fuss. Introductions were curt, and soon enough, Cain found himself darting across town with letters and packages in hand. The work was simple but relentless, his legs burning as he jogged from door to door. By the time he returned, sweat clung to him like a second shirt.
"Not bad," the clerk said, sliding two dollar bills across the counter. Cain pocketed the money with a small nod. Two dollars richer, lungs aching, stomach growling, yet for the first time in a long while, he felt a spark of momentum.
"Guess he ain't comin'…" Amos muttered, shaking his head as he turned away from the empty stable yard. What had he expected, really? Most folk didn't last a day in this kind of work.
But the sound of hurried footsteps on the dirt made him stop short.
"Mister Amos! Sorry I'm late, I was runnin' errands for the post office!"
Amos turned, spotting Cain trotting toward him, sweat streaking his face, shirt clinging to his back.
For a moment, Amos just stared, then a slow grin broke across his weathered features.
"Well, I'll be damned," he said, folding his arms. "Welcome back, son. Let's get straight to it."
To be continued....
(save the book, power stones, and comment)