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She took the bags carefully, her fingers brushing his as she smiled up at him. "Thank you," she said, her voice tender. Then, before he could react, she leaned in and kissed his cheek, soft, light, and full of affection. "You're too good to me."
Caleb's cheeks warmed, but he said nothing, just smiled as she eagerly peeked into the first bag. Her eyes sparkled when she saw the blue fabric, and she gasped softly. "They're beautiful…" she murmured, pulling one dress halfway out to admire it.
Caleb chuckled, crossing his arms. "You ain't seen the half of it. There's a few more in there, figured I'd get a mix."
Mary-Beth's joy was infectious. She turned the fabric in her hands, beaming like a girl seeing her first sunrise. "You must have spend quite the fortune to buy me this dresses, didn't you?"
"Not that much of a fortune," he said, smiling. "I have made some money while in Saint Denis so in some sense I don't spend a fortune of my money. Seeing that all of it will suits you, I just bought it without thinking to much."
Before she could reply, a familiar voice cut thro inugh the air,nsmooth, commanding, and tinged with that ever present charm.
"Well now," Dutch said, stepping forward from the shade of the veranda. "Ain't this a beautiful moment."
Mary-Beth turned quickly, her hands still clutching the bags. Dutch's smile was warm but edged with something harder underneath.
"Forgive me for interruptin', my dear," he said with a small bow of his head. "Truly, I hate to intrude on such tenderness. But I'm afraid I must borrow our young man here for a moment. We've got some important matters to discuss, especially since he's been gone more than a week in Saint Denis."
Mary-Beth smiled politely, though a flicker of concern passed her eyes. "It's alright, Dutch," she said softly. She turned to Caleb, her expression gentle. "I'll wait for you by the campfire, okay?"
Caleb gave a small nod. "Alright. Won't be long."
She gave him one last smile before heading down the porch steps, the paper bags clutched in her arms. The dresses swayed slightly as she walked away toward the campfire, her figure soon blending with the other gang members.
Dutch watched her go, then looked back at Caleb, his expression shifting to something more serious. The easy charm faded, replaced by that calculating glint Caleb had come to recognize all too well.
"Walk with me, son," Dutch said.
Caleb followed him off the porch, down the gravel path toward the small dock that overlooked the bayou. The sun had begun to dip lower now, its light turning amber through the trees.
Dutch clasped his hands behind his back. "You were gone a while, Caleb. I trust your business in Saint Denis went smoothly?"
"It did," Caleb replied simply.
Dutch nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the water.
"You were gone quite a while. Longer than I expected. Saint Denis must've kept you busy. Tell me, what did you find out there?"
Caleb kept his tone neutral. "Found a lot, Dutch. The city's crawling with opportunity and danger. I took care of some business, earned some good money, and made a few contacts that might be worth something down the line."
Dutch nodded slowly. "Contacts, huh? Then what about the information I ask you to look into, about Angelo Bronte?"
Caleb's face hardened at Dutch's question. Of course he'd bring up Bronte first. He'd known it was coming, he'd even prepared for it, but still, a faint heaviness sank into his chest.
He'd hoped Dutch might ease into things, talk about the camp, about the others, maybe even about the recent tensions between the two of them and maybe cleared it up. But no. Dutch went straight for the jugular. Angelo Bronte. The name that seemed to ignite something unsteady behind the older man's eyes.
Caleb drew a slow breath through his nose, letting the silence stretch a bit. The breeze coming off the bayou rustled through the reeds, making soft hissing sounds. Crickets sang in the background. Dutch waited, his figure straight and proud, hands still folded behind his back, the fading orange light painting his face in long shadows.
Inside Caleb's mind, the gears turned fast. He couldn't afford to give Dutch everything, not the truth, not the way Bronte really worked or how dangerous his network truly was. Dutch was already too volatile. Give him too much, and he'd storm straight into Saint Denis thinking he could tame the lion in his den. No, Caleb had to filter the information carefully, enough to satisfy him, but not enough to feed his recklessness.
Dutch finally turned to him, that steel edge creeping into his voice. "Caleb," he said, tone heavy now, carrying that dangerous authority that brooked no delay.
That snapped him out of his thoughts. He nodded quickly. "Yes, Dutch. I looked into Bronte. Deep as I could, anyway, without drawing too much attention to myself. He's not a man you can ask about directly."
Dutch's posture relaxed slightly, and a faint smile curved his lips. "That's good. I knew I could count on you."
Caleb activated the two skills silently in his mind, Persuasion and Acting, feeling the familiar pulse of calm clarity wash through him. It steadied his tone, sharpened his instincts. Every gesture, every pause would count. Dutch wasn't the kind of man you could fool easily, not unless you made the lie sound more like a promise.
"I found out quite a bit," Caleb said smoothly. "Angelo Bronte runs Saint Denis from the shadows. He's the one who pulls all the strings, the rich, the police, the politicians, even the mayor. Every major deal or racket runs through him. He's rich, powerful, and he's smart enough to make sure everyone else stays beneath him. Money buys him silence, loyalty, and control. From what I've heard and also seen, he rules the underworld with an iron fist. He can do pretty much whatever he wants, and nobody says a word."
Dutch's expression darkened as he listened. His eyes drifted toward the water again, his jaw working as though grinding his thoughts to dust. ""A tyrant, then. Preying on the people. Just another parasite in a suit," he murmured. "The bastard's sittin' up there in his mansion, livin' like a king while good folk suffer in the mud."
Caleb stayed quiet, letting Dutch's anger fill the air. The older man's temper was like a river in flood, better to let it run its course than try to dam it.
After a long silence, Dutch turned his head slightly. "Anything else? Somethin' we can use?"
Caleb nodded, preparing his next move. "There's something else, yeah. I heard he's behind a series of high stakes poker tournaments, fancy ones, held on riverboats. One's supposed to happen soon. The pots are astronomical, Dutch. We're talking tens of thousands of dollars. All the city's elite are there, all flashing their cash in one place."
Dutch's eyes lit up with that familiar, dangerous fire. "A riverboat…" he murmured, the words dripping with possibility.
"But," Caleb interjected, his tone shifting to one of grave caution, "the security is immense and tight. Security everywhere, both official and… unofficial. It's not just the boat's guards and the law. Bronte has his own men everywhere, enforcers like Guido Martelli. They're sharp, professional, and ruthless. And…"
He let the word hang in the air for maximum effect. "There are persistent rumors that Bronte has an arrangement with the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. He pays them a king's ransom to look the other way on his operations and to use their resources to track down anyone who crosses him."
Dutch's eyes lit up instantly at the mention of the riverboat and the money. Caleb could see it, that glint of greed, of grandiosity, the same look Dutch always got when he smelled a big score. But just as quickly, his expression soured when he heard about the Pinkertons.
"Damn those dogs," Dutch muttered, rubbing his chin. "Always sniffin' where they don't belong. And Bronte's got them on his leash now, huh? Figures." He gave a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. "The man thinks himself untouchable."
Caleb kept his tone measured. "He's dangerous, Dutch. I don't know what kind of plan you're formulating, but I have to be frank. Hitting that riverboat… the risk is astronomical. The stakes are too high for us right now. We're not set up for a fight like that."
He quickly pivoted, offering alternatives he knew would seem paltry to the dreaming outlaw. "There are other opportunities. Good bounties posted. I heard talk of a payroll stagecoach running between Rhodes and Saint Denis twice a week. Smaller, cleaner scores. We could—"
"Enough!" Dutch snapped, his irritation boiling over. He then turned sharply to him, the easy calm gone. His eyes burned with irritation. "Now, I appreciate your concern, son," he said, the paternal facade cracked, revealing the raw, entitled ego beneath. "I will be the one to handle what plans we have going forward, Caleb. You listen to me. I appreciate your concern, and I thank you for gathering this information. It is valuable."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, threatening register. "But let me remind you, for the last time, do not try to give your opinions when I did not ask for one. Your job is to scout, to provide intelligence. My job is to lead. Do you understand the distinction?"
Caleb opened his mouth, a retort about suicidal leadership on his tongue, but Dutch cut him off with a sharp, final gesture.
"Now," Dutch continued, "you've done well bringin' this to me. I thank you for that. But what we do with it? That's my burden. You just keep followin' orders, alright?"
The words stung more than Caleb expected. He clenched his jaw, nodded once. "Understood."
Dutch's tone softened slightly, but the damage was done. "Good. I knew you'd see sense. You've got potential, Caleb, real potential. Don't go wastin' it second guessin' me. Now I've got some thinkin' to do."
With that, he turned and started back toward the house, his long coat brushing through the tall grass, his boots crunching against the gravel path. The sun had dipped halfway behind the treeline, painting the bayou gold and red.
Caleb stood there for a moment, watching him go, the smile fading from his own face. He could see the tension in Dutch's shoulders, the weight of paranoia starting to sink its claws in deeper every day. Hosea wasn't wrong, the man was slipping, and fast.
When Dutch disappeared behind the porch, Caleb exhaled, slow and heavy. He rubbed a hand down his face, muttering to himself. "Guess it won't be long before things start fallin' apart."
He didn't move for a long time. The conversation had confirmed his worst fears. Dutch wasn't just unstable, he was hurtling toward a cliff, and he was determined to take the entire gang with him.
The carefully filtered information about the riverboat, meant to deter him, had only provided a tantalizing target, and Dutch's pride had prevented him from hearing the explicit warnings about the Pinkertons and Bronte's security.
Caleb's face was a mask of grim seriousness. The gears of fate were turning, accelerated by Dutch's madness. His own plans would need to accelerate in turn.
He needed resources, allies, and exit strategies. He looked over at the campfire, where Mary-Beth was waiting, her new dresses beside her. She, and others like her, were the reason he couldn't just cut and run. He was embedded in this tragedy, and he would have to see it through.
He took a slow, deliberate breath, the humid bayou air filling his lungs. It didn't need to be said aloud. The tension was a physical thing, a storm cloud gathering over Shady Belle. It looks like maybe it doesn't need long before something big happened inside the gang.
The silence after Dutch's departure was more deafening than any argument. The split was coming. He could feel it. And when it did, he intended to be on the right side of the fallout.
After a while, he turned back toward camp. The night had begun to creep in, and the faint smell of stew and tobacco drifted through the air. Laughter echoed faintly near the campfire, Uncle's lazy drawl mixing with Sean's boisterous tone. The kind of sound that once made him feel at home. Now it just reminded him how fragile all of it was.
...
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: -