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(A/N: my Skyrim have been unblocked so everyone can go read it now, thanks for the patience and sorry for the inconveniences!)
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His biggest prize came mid morning. A clerk from the main office, a nervous man with ink stained fingers, hurried out with a stack of telegrams, heading for the train station. Caleb, falling into step beside him as if providing an escort, engaged him.
"Busy morning for messages," Caleb said, his tone bland, conversational.
The clerk jumped, then shrugged. "Always is. Especially now. Between the Saint Denis mess and the… other business." He glanced around nervously.
"Other business?" Caleb prompted, his Persuasion Skill gently nudging the man toward confiding.
"The hunt," the clerk whispered, lowering his voice. "For that gang. The one that's been humiliating him. Mister Cornwall's got agents everywhere, but since that Milton and Ross fella got killed in Saint Denis, the trail's gone stone cold. He's furious. Got a man from New York coming in, some kind of specialist, to take over the investigation. Due in on tomorrow's train."
Caleb's blood ran cold. A specialist. The Pinkertons were in disarray, so Cornwall was hiring his own. This changed the calculus. It meant the hunt wasn't over, it was being professionalized.
"He still thinks they're around here?" Caleb asked, keeping his voice idle.
"Who knows? He's convinced they're hiding in these hills like rats. Got teams scouring Roanoke Ridge, but… nothing. Wastes money, if you ask me." The clerk hurried ahead, eager to be rid of the telegrams and the conversation.
So, Caleb thought, continuing his patrol. Cornwall is not licking his wounds. He's re tooling. He's importing talent. The assault isn't coming to Saint Denis, he's focusing the hunt here, in what he controls.
Throughout the day, he pieced together more. The payroll was delivered under heavy guard every Friday. Cornwall himself was rarely seen, he conducted business from his private rail car, which was kept on a secure spur line near the office, or from his second floor office in the brick building. He was a ghost in his own fortress, paranoid and angry.
Caleb managed to get himself assigned to a perimeter check of the rail spur. There it was, a lavish, armored private car, painted a somber green, with two guards permanently stationed at its steps. The curtains were drawn. As Caleb walked past, he heard a voice, muffled but unmistakable in its wrath, from inside the car.
"…a pack of illiterate frontier trash! And Milton, that pompous fool got himself killed! I want results, not ashes! I will have their heads on pikes, do you understand? On pikes!"
It was Cornwall. The rage was palpable, a toddler's tantrum backed by a tycoon's wealth. Caleb felt a flicker of that dark satisfaction. This powerful man, who thought he could buy the world, had been stymied at every turn. It was a small, cold comfort.
By the end of the first day, Caleb had learned crucial things.
1. Cornwall was actively, furiously hunting them, with a new focus on the Roanoke Ridge area.
2. He was bypassing the broken Pinkertons and bringing in his own "specialist" investigator.
3. He was a recluse, operating from his train car or a fortified office.
4. His operation was militarized, well supplied, and fueled by pure spite.
But he hadn't found a vulnerability yet. He didn't know the specialist's name or capabilities. He didn't know if Cornwall kept significant wealth on site. He didn't know what next move will he made in Saint Denis, after all Bronte is decimating his men there after Milton was killed by Caleb and the Pinkerton's was pushed back. He needed to get inside that office or that rail car.
As dusk fell on his first day of infiltration, Caleb returned to the docks area on his "patrol," ensuring the crate remained undisturbed.
He then made his way back to the gunsmith's room, changing out of the guard uniform and storing it in his inventory. He was Jim Callahan again, a bounty hunter eating a solitary meal.
The second day, he knew, would be riskier. He would need to get closer to the heart. Perhaps volunteer for interior guard duty. Or find a way to be near the train station when the specialist arrived. The information was valuable, but it wasn't enough.
He needed a lever to break Cornwall's will, or a chance to cut the head off the snake for good. The clock was ticking, the missing guard would be noticed, and the specialist's arrival would tighten security further.
The quiet arts of observation were coming to an end. Soon, he might need to create an opportunity, and that might require a louder, more explosive kind of persuasion.
Caleb lay back on the narrow cot with all of that turning slowly in his mind, the thin mattress creaking beneath his weight.
The single lamp hissed softly, throwing a weak circle of yellow light across the ceiling. Before sleep truly shrouded his entire consciousness, one thought lingered sharper than the rest, he hoped he wouldn't have to use the dynamites.
An explosion would cause quite the commotion, the kind that rattled windows and memories alike, and worse, it could spook Cornwall away from Annesburg entirely.
Caleb didn't just want the man frightened, he wanted access, leverage, and, if fate allowed, some of the tycoon's riches that are here to become his personal wealth.
Blowing half the town sky high would ruin that chance. With that practical greed comforting him more than any lullaby, he finally drifted off.
Morning came gray and smelling of coal smoke. Caleb woke to the distant clang of the mine bell and the shuffle of boots on wet planks outside.
He dressed as Jim Callahan once more and left the room, careful not to draw the gunsmith's attention. He walked casually through the streets, past yawning miners and bored company men, until he reached the docks and the secluded dock shed.
He had to change there, last night he could use the cover of darkness to return to his room with the guard's clothes, but now daylight ruled the town.
Inside the shed he pulled on the navy uniform, adjusted the belt, and took out the Carbine Repeater. The disguise fit well enough, the dead man had been roughly his size, and a little dust completed the illusion.
Like he had planned yesterday, he needed to get closer to the heart: volunteer for interior guard duty to get inside that office and that rail car, or find a way to be near the train station when the specialist arrived or do both.
He had to discover the specialist's name and capabilities, whether Cornwall kept significant wealth on site, and what next move Cornwall intended for Saint Denis. All of this had to be collected cautiously. Dynamites were the last option, a tool of panic rather than precision.
He already activated his max level Acting, Persuasion, and Sneaking Skills, letting the invisible system settle over him like a second skin. Shoulders relaxed, gaze steady, voice unremarkable, he became just another bored company guard.
He reported to the foreman's shack for his "assignment," his demeanor the perfect blend of boredom and dutifulness. "Heard there was extra duty for the interior detail," Caleb said to the harassed looking shift sergeant. "Need the hours." A simple, greedy motive, easily believed.
The sergeant, a man with a face like cracked leather, squinted at him. "Your name is McCreedy, right? Newcomers usually stick to the docks."
"Docks are cold and boring. Figured I'd see how the other half lives before I freeze my ass off."
A grunt. The sergeant consulted a clipboard. "Fine. You're on the main office exterior rotation. Two hour shifts. Relay with Johnson at noon. Don't touch nothin', don't talk to nobody 'less they're Mr. Cornwall men. Understood?"
"Understood." It wasn't inside, but it was adjacent. A starting point.
His Luck stat, 8 out of 10, began its subtle work. As he took up his post by the side door of the brick office, a commotion erupted inside. Raised voices. A moment later, the door burst open and Cornwall himself stormed out, his face a thundercloud, followed by two fawning adjutants. Caleb snapped to a rigid attention, eyes forward, just another piece of the scenery.
"—absolute incompetence!" Cornwall snarled, not even glancing at the guards. "The payroll is a day late because of 'bandits'? I pay you to ensure there are no bandits! If it's not here by noon, I'll have your positions sold to the lowest bidder!" He stalked toward his private rail car, the adjutants scrambling after him.
In the flustered aftermath, one of the office clerks, a young man with spectacles, rushed out holding a ledger. "The monthly production figures for Mister Cornwall! He forgot them!"
He looked around, panicked, and his eyes landed on Caleb. "You! Guard! Take these to Mister Cornwall's car immediately. Do not look inside. Just deliver them!"
Opportunity. Caleb took the ledger with a curt nod. "Yes, sir."
He marched the short distance to the secure spur line, his heart rate steady, his face a mask of blank service. The two permanent guards at the steps recognized the uniform and the ledger. One jerked his head. "He's in a mood. Just leave it on the table inside the door and get out."
Caleb climbed the steps, opened the heavy door, and stepped into opulent, wood paneled treachery.
The private car was a mobile palace. Plush velvet seats, a polished mahogany desk, crystal decanters of amber liquor.
And there, in a locked strongbox sitting beside the desk, not even hidden in a compartment, was a smaller ledger and several stacks of cash. Cornwall's immediate operating fund. The man's arrogance was his vulnerability; he felt so secure in his fortress he didn't bother with true secrecy.
Caleb's Sneaking Skill made him a phantom. He was at the strongbox in two silent steps. A set of lockpicks, simple tools he'd purchased in Valentine, appeared in his hands from his inventory. His Crafting Skill, which understood mechanics and tension, made the cheap lock seem like child's play. It clicked open in seconds.
He didn't hesitate. His hands swept the contents. Bundles of cash, around 5,000 dollars, vanished into his inventory. Then gold bars, five of them, heavy and cold, followed.
Beneath them was a folded parchment, Deed of Ownership, Cornwall Mining Co., Annesburg Site. A smile touched his lips. That was a symbolic prize, but a potent one. He took it. At the very bottom was a folder marked Saint Denis - Operations.
He had seconds. He flipped it open. It was a mercenary roster. Names, numbers, points of origin. Blackwater Irregulars - 15 men… Lemoyne Raiders (remnant) - 8 men… Contracted via Smithfield's Agency, Saint Denis…
Objective: Re establish foothold in dock district, eliminate Bronte operatives. Cornwall wasn't just hunting the gang, he was doubling down on his street war with Bronte, a proud, stupid waste of resources and lives. Caleb committed the details to his enhanced memory and slipped the folder back into the empty strongbox, relocking it.
The entire theft took less than thirty seconds. He placed the production ledger on the desk as instructed and backed out, closing the door softly.
"He say anything?" one of the door guards asked.
"Didn't look up," Caleb replied, his voice bored. He returned to his post, his inventory now significantly heavier.
The Luck stat wasn't done. At the shift change, he was "randomly" selected to accompany a quartermaster to the train station to receive a shipment of "special equipment." The timing was perfect. The train from the east was due, and on it, the specialist.
They waited on the platform amidst the choking coal smoke. The train wheezed to a halt. Among the few disembarking passengers, one man stood out.
He was tall, lean, dressed in a dark suit that was practical rather than fashionable. He carried a single, well worn leather case. His face was weathered, his eyes a pale, assessing blue that swept the platform like a surveyor's instrument. This was no desk-bound detective. This was a hunter.
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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 - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 1)
- Leadership (Lvl 1)
Money: 3,370 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 255,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 70 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, 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
Bank: -