If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Mary-Beth rested her cheek against his back, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. She didn't fully understand the mechanical intricacies of the weapons he had drawn, but she understood the power they represented. As the muddy, bustling outskirts of Valentine finally came into view on the horizon, she knew that the man riding in front of her wasn't just surviving the dying of the West, he was the one pulling the trigger on the new century.
Caleb directed Morgan to ride toward the train station where the mail station is located inside. The muddy, bustling outskirts of Valentine finally gave way to the familiar, chaotic center of the livestock town.
The air here was a sharp contrast to the pine scented breeze of Strawberry, it smelled of wet earth, horse manure, and the thick, coal scented smoke billowing from the approaching train. The shrill whistle of the train echoed across the Heartlands, a mechanical beast signaling the relentless march of industry.
When they reached the station, the wooden platform was relatively quiet, the morning rush of passengers having already departed or settled into the nearby saloons. Caleb pulled back gently on the reins, bringing the mare to a halt near the edge of the boardwalk.
He got off Morgan first, his boots squelching slightly in the Valentine mud, before turning and reaching up. He firmly grasped Mary-Beth by the waist, helping her get off Morgan with practiced ease, ensuring her riding skirt didn't drag in the muck.
He hitched the horse securely to the wooden hitching post, giving the mare a brief, affectionate pat on the neck. "Rest up, girl. We'll be a while."
Before then, the two of them stepped up onto the wooden boardwalk and entered the train station through the heavy double doors. The interior was dimly lit, smelling of stale tobacco, aged paper, and floor wax. The rhythmic ticking of the telegraph machine clattered from the back room, a constant backdrop to the station's operations.
They bypassed the ticket counter and went straight to the mail station, stepping up to the barred window counter. Behind the iron grille stood a balding, bespectacled mail clerk, currently stamping a stack of outgoing parcels with a rhythmic, mind numbing repetition.
Hearing their approach, the mail clerk looked up, adjusting his glasses. He offered a polite, customer service smile, greeting them in a reedy voice, and asked them what he could do today to help the two of them.
Caleb reached into his dark leather satchel and took out the thick, waterproof manila folder. It already had the precise address meticulously written on the front in Mary-Beth's elegant handwriting, designating exactly who should receive it, Mahlon H. Marlin, Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., Connecticut. He had also ensured there was a premium postage stamp securely affixed to the corner.
He then slid the heavy folder under the iron bars, giving it to the clerk, saying, "I would like to have this sent to Connecticut."
The clerk received it, his eyebrows raising slightly at the sheer weight and thickness of the parcel. He looked at the address, tracing the prestigious company name with his eyes, before nodding his head. "Connecticut. Yes, sir. We have an express car heading east this afternoon. I will make sure this arrives safe and sound."
Caleb's expression remained perfectly pleasant, but the calculating eyes of the Underboss glinted beneath the brim of his hat. At this time, he reached back into his satchel and took out a crisp stack of bills. Fifty dollars. In 1899, it was a staggering sum, more than what most honest men in Valentine made in a month of backbreaking labor.
He placed the money on the worn wooden counter, resting two fingers on top of the greenbacks, and smoothly slid it to the clerk's side of the bars.
"I would be very happy," Caleb said, his voice dropping to a low, magnetic baritone that carried a subtle, undeniable weight of authority, "if this letter can be stored in a very safe place where absolutely no one will open it. And I would be even happier if it could arrive at the fastest speed there possible. Treat it as if your life depends on its swift delivery."
The clerk's eyes went wide, darting from the small fortune on the counter to Caleb's imposing figure. The implicit command was crystal clear. The clerk immediately reached under the bars and took the money, making it vanish into his vest pocket with the speed of a seasoned magician.
He swallowed hard, his posture straightening to rigid attention. Before then, he says, "I will make sure that happens, sir! No need to worry at all. Your letter is the absolute top priority. It goes in the master safe in the mail car, directly to the hands of the postmaster in Connecticut. You have my word."
Caleb smiled, a genuine expression of satisfaction, thanking the clerk for his dedicated service. Mary-Beth, standing quietly beside him, also did the same, offering the flustered clerk a polite, dazzling smile that made the poor man blush furiously.
Before then, the two of them turned and left the train station, the heavy double doors swinging shut behind them, leaving the clerk staring in awe at the empty counter where fifty dollars had just miraculously appeared.
As they stepped back out into the bright morning sunlight of Valentine, Mary-Beth looked up at Caleb, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and profound realization.
She linked her arm through his and said to Caleb, "The world truly works faster if money is involved, huh Caleb?"
Caleb nodded his head, his gaze sweeping across the muddy streets, the struggling businesses, and the wealthy ranchers riding past. "That is the law of nature, Mary-Beth," he replied, his voice taking on a reflective, almost philosophical tone.
"In the past," Caleb continued as they walked toward Morgan, "when there was no printed money, gold and valuable things were the ones that pushed the world forward. Empires were built on salt and silver. Power, control, and the rest of it all... they are just illusions. They will crumble in a matter of time without money, because to sustain those things, it needs money or valuable things as fuel to burn. A king without a treasury is just a man with a target on his back. I'm just making sure our treasury never runs dry."
Mary-Beth, hearing that, stopped for a moment and looked at him. The depth of his understanding, the sheer, unvarnished pragmatism of his worldview, continually fascinated her. She looked at his handsome profile, the sharp jawline and the intense, calculating eyes.
"I didn't expect that you could be so philosophical," Mary-Beth said, a teasing lilt in her voice. "Usually, you let your revolvers do the talking when it comes to power."
Caleb chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against her arm. He tipped his hat slightly, a rogue's grin touching his lips. "I have my hidden charm, Miss Gaskill. I can't just be all blood and thunder."
Before then, he brought Mary-Beth to his restaurant. He helped her by getting on Morgan, swinging up behind her into the saddle. He flicked the reins, and they headed into the heart of the town.
To navigate Valentine, they had to take the specific route Caleb had memorized. They headed to the main street of Valentine, the mud splashing softly against Morgan's hooves.
Where they reached the three way intersection with the white timber church standing prominently on the corner, they turned left. They passed through the bustling main street, riding past the Smithfield Saloon, the gunsmith, and the general store, heading steadily toward the town's stable at the far end of the thoroughfare.
Just before reaching the large, hay filled barn, they turned right.
There, situated on a prime, elevated plot of land, was Caleb's restaurant.
It was located right beside the stable, offering weary travelers the perfect opportunity to board their horses and immediately sit down for a hot meal.
After getting off Morgan and hitching her to the private post reserved for the owner, they didn't walk toward the main dining patio. Instead, they entered through the front door of the main building, a sturdy oak door which prominently displayed a brass sign reading: Employees Only.
The interior seating was still under renovation; the customers only ate at the outdoor eating area beside the restaurant to the right, enjoying the open air and the view of the bustling town.
However, as they walked past the low wooden fence separating the patio from the street, they were immediately spotted.
The outdoor eating area was packed. The tables were filled with rugged cowboys, dusty ranch hands, and weary travelers digging into massive plates of burgers, golden fries, and bowl of ice creams.
The customers who saw Caleb and Mary-Beth immediately stopped chewing. They recognized him instantly.
They greeted them loudly, waving half-eaten burgers and raising mugs of beer.
"Hey! It's Thorne!" one of the older ranchers shouted, wiping grease from his thick mustache. "Look who decided to show his face!"
They began shouting over the patio fence, saying how they haven't seen the "Hero of Valentine" for quite some time. "Thought you went and got yourself killed by a bear up in the Grizzlies!" another cowboy hollered.
And from the looks of it, their sharp eyes immediately caught the way Caleb was holding Mary-Beth's hand, the protective, intimate proximity between them. The rowdy crowd zeroed in on the beautiful, blushing woman by his side.
"And from the looks of it," the first rancher bellowed, a massive grin splitting his weathered face, "he has made it official with the lady he is courting, huh?!"
In which they teased him relentlessly. Loud, piercing whistles erupted from the patio. Cowboys stamped their boots on the wooden decking, and someone banged a tin cup against the table in a rhythmic cheer.
Caleb laughed, a genuine, booming sound that carried over the noise. He didn't shy away from the attention; he leaned into it. He stopped, wrapping his arm securely around Mary-Beth's waist, pulling her flush against his side for the entire patio to see.
Saying to them, his voice loud and proud, "Of course I succeeded, boys! What kind of man do you take me for?"
He raised his free hand, gesturing to the stunning woman beside him. "Let me introduce all of you to my wife now!"
The impact of the word wife, though technically a lie for the present moment, but an absolute certainty for the future, was electric. The cowboys, ranch hands, and rowdy customers let out huge, deafening teasing cheers. Hats were thrown into the air, and a chorus of "Congratulations!" and "Lucky bastard!" echoed across the street.
The sudden, overwhelming attention caused Mary-Beth to blush violently. Her face turned a brilliant shade of crimson, but she couldn't wipe the massive, joyous smile from her lips. She buried her face against Caleb's shoulder, laughing helplessly at the sheer absurdity and warmth of the frontier town's congratulations.
The noise was threatening to disrupt the entire operation. Jasper, who run the front of house, appeared like an angry badger. At this time, from the large open counter window in the patio, Jasper shoved his head out.
Jasper shouted to the customers, waving a white ordering towel frantically. "Hey! Hey! Quiet down out there! Stay calm if you want to be served! You can't disturb my employee like that, and you certainly can't disturb the Hero of Valentine that I paid!"
The customers, thoroughly enjoying the moment, of course let out loud boos and protested jokingly, throwing crumpled napkins toward the window, but the uproar slowly settled back into a dull, happy roar of conversation, allowing Caleb and Mary-Beth to enter finally through the employee door.
Immediately inside, the contrast between the loud patio and the bustling, organized interior was stark. They stepped into a wide hallway. To the left was the designated resting area for employees, a comfortable space with a worn leather sofa, a small table scattered with playing cards, and a pot of coffee permanently brewing on a side stove.
They were welcomed by a very familiar crew. Jessie, the hardworking waitress, Lenny Summers and Sean MacGuire, currently slacking off from their 'guard duties', and Mickey, the one armed veteran Caleb had pulled off the streets and given a respectable job wiping down tables.
They were resting in the resting area for employees to the left, taking a quick break between the lunch rushes.
When Caleb stepped through the door, the dynamic in the room shifted instantly. Caleb greeted them back with a warm nod, Mary-Beth doing the same, her blush finally beginning to fade into a happy glow.
Mickey practically jumped out of his chair, a wide, toothy grin on his face. Mickey says, "Boss! You're back! Oh, it's so good to see you, Mr. Thorne! You wanting to help us back here in the restaurant today?"
To which Caleb shook his head with a low chuckle. He took off his hat, hanging it on a peg near the door. "No, Mickey. Not today," Caleb said, his eyes scanning the relaxed postures of his gang mates. "I just came here to get some food... and also to collect my share of the revenue from Jasper."
Hearing that, everyone in the room groaned jokingly. The transition from the terrifying Underboss of Saint Denis to the good-natured, slightly arrogant restaurant owner of Valentine was flawless.
"Oh, listen to him!" Sean MacGuire piped up, tossing a playing card onto the table. "The boss now has become a greedy capitalist! Comes back to town just to empty the safe and steal the bread from our mouths!"
To which Lenny and Sean, of course, dared to joke more than the others, leveraging their status as his brothers in arms.
"Ain't seen you scrub a pot in weeks, Caleb," Lenny added, leaning back on the sofa with a wide grin. "We're the ones out there sweatin' over the grease traps, and you're just here to collect the gold."
Caleb jokingly went along with them. He puffed out his chest, adopting a haughty, aristocratic posture. Saying, "Yes, I am. The ultimate capitalist. So now, you boys better work great and ensure my restaurant is incredibly profitable. And you better listen to Jasper if you don't want to get fired or replaced by someone who actually knows how to hold a broom."
Everyone joked around, the camaraderie thick and genuine. The restaurant was a perfect, legitimate front, providing clean cash and a safe haven for the gang members to experience normal, civilian life.
The laughter continued until Jasper abruptly entered into the conversation. The manager stepped into the break room, wiping his hands on his pristine apron, a stern, no nonsense look on his face. Jasper jokingly says, crossing his arms, "Well, if none of them are working, they certainly wouldn't get paid today. Break time is over, gentlemen. Table four needs clearing, and we have a line out the front."
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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 2)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 2)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 4)
- Bow (Lvl 3)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 4)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 3)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl 3)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 50x50x50)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 2)
- Leadership (Lvl 2)
Money: 3,322 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 250,992 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 70 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 Braithwaites Land Deed, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, 1 Senator Pendleton Sealed Envelope, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, & 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern
Bank: -