If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my Patreon Tang12!!!
...
(A/N: I hope everyone give my new novel Skyrim a chance and added it to their library!)
...
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.
The quartermaster, a chatty sort worn down by Caleb's Persuasion Skill fueled feigned interest from his Acting Skill, nodded toward the man. "That'll be him. Ferris. Andrew Ferris. Heard he tracked Geronimo for the army. Nasty piece of work, but gets the job done. Mr. Cornwall's paying him a king's ransom to come here and work for him."
Andrew Ferris. Ex military. Tracked Geronimo. The name and reputation landed in Caleb's mind like a lead weight. This was the real threat. A man like that wouldn't be chasing rumors, he'd be methodical, patient, and most importantly relentless.
He'd look for patterns, supply lines, hidden camps. He wouldn't stop at Roanoke Ridge. He'd scour the Heartlands, the Grizzlies, everywhere. It was only a matter of time before he, or men under his direction, stumbled upon a happy, busy homestead west of Valentine.
The specialist was met by one of Cornwall's adjutants and whisked toward a waiting carriage. Caleb helped load crates of "special equipment" (which turned out to be more advanced surveying gear and boxes of ammunition) onto a wagon, his mind racing.
By the end of the second day, he had everything he came for and more.
1. Cornwall's Immediate Wealth: Looted. A direct financial blow.
2. The Mine Deed: A symbolic knife to the heart of Cornwall's local power.
3. Saint Denis Plans: Detailed knowledge of a costly, distracting feud.
4. The Specialist: Identified, his name is Andrew Ferris. Capabilities was understood, extremely skilled.
5. Security Patterns: Fully mapped.
The information was a goldmine, but the presence of Ferris changed the equation. Cornwall could be bankrupted, embarrassed, even killed, and the company might eventually hire another hunter since Caleb doesn't have enough power to absorb his company yet. But Ferris was the instrument. Remove the instrument, and the hand holding it becomes clumsy, slow.
As he changed back into his own clothes in the dockside shed at dusk, a new plan crystallized. It was clean, it was direct, and it didn't require dynamite. It required a knife in the dark.
Ferris would be taken to the Cornwall office, briefed, given quarters. He would be a ghost within the fortress, but a ghost that needed to eat, to sleep, to use the privy. Caleb's Sneaking Skill was max level. His knowledge of the compound was now intimate.
He would not wait for Ferris to begin his hunt. He would end it here, in Annesburg, before it even started. He would give Cornwall a message written not in fire, but in the cold, silent failure of his best hope. The theft would be discovered eventually, causing fury and paranoia.
The death of his new specialist, on his first night, in the heart of his secure compound, would cause something else, a chilling, demoralizing terror. It might just be the final straw that broke the old titan's spirit, sending him fleeing back to New York with his tail between his legs or to do something even more reckless.
Caleb returned to his room at the gunsmith's, not as Jim Callahan the bounty hunter, but as a specter of retribution. He ate, he cleaned his knife, and he waited for the full, deep dark of the Appalachian night.
Then, dressed in dark clothes, his face smudged with soot, he slipped out the window onto the rickety stairs. He melted into the shadows of Annesburg, a predator moving toward its prey, ready to ensure that the specialist from New York would never file a single report.
The night was his ally, a thick, coal scented blanket that swallowed sound and shape. Caleb moved through it like a thought, his max level Sneaking Skill rendering him a part of the darkness itself.
The compound, so imposing by day, became a landscape of predictable shadows and monotonous patrols. Guards passed within feet of him, yawning or muttering about the cold, utterly unaware of the phantom in their midst.
His high luck stat which was 8 out 10 manifested in small, perfect ways, a guard turning to cough just as Caleb crossed a lit patch, a dog choosing that moment to bark in the opposite direction, masking the soft scuff of his boot.
He felt a profound appreciation for his honed abilities. Without them, this would be a desperate, clanging gauntlet. With them, it was a silent, deadly waltz.
He reached the living quarters attached to the main office, a slightly less grim building where overseers and now, apparently, specialists were housed.
Finding Ferris's room was simple deduction, the newest, most secure door at the end of the hall, with a fresh looking lock. Caleb's lockpicks made quick, silent work of it.
The room was spartan, military neat. A single bag, unpacked, lay on the bed. But leaning against the wall and laid out on the small table was an arsenal that told Caleb everything he needed to know about the man's priorities and skill.
A LeMat Revolver, its unique under barrel shotgun cylinder a brutal tool for close quarters certainty. An M1899 Pistol, the very latest design, expensive and reliable. A Litchfield Repeater, which was the same like his.
And the crown jewel, a Carcano rifle, a serious military grade weapon with a long scope. This wasn't the kit of a detective, it was the toolkit of a soldier hunter, prepared for any engagement from a saloon brawl to a mountain side sniper duel.
Caleb let out a soft, appreciative whistle. Ferris was not just a tracker, he was a combatant of the highest order. Without hesitation, Caleb willed the LeMat, the M1899, and the prized Carcano rifle into his inventory. He left the Litchfield, since he also have it himself, and taking everything might raise an alarm before he was ready.
A quick, methodical search revealed little in the way of personal valuables, Ferris traveled light, but in the leather case, he found the prize, a thick folder. Inside was a compiled dossier on the Van der Linde gang.
It was a chillingly professional document, merging Pinkerton files with Cornwall's own intelligence. There were detailed physical descriptions, known aliases, psychological profiles.
Especially on the boys. Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur had entire pages dedicated to them, their skills, their personalities, their appearances, even educated guesses about their habits.
• Dutch van der Linde – charismatic, ideological, prone to grand gestures. Prefers mountainous terrain. Avoid direct confrontation with civilians unless provoked.
• Arthur Morgan – primary enforcer. Exceptional marksman. Loyal to Dutch above all. Moral conflict noted.
• Hosea Matthews – strategist. Nonviolent when possible. Ill health suspected.
There's also maps with speculated areas of operation were marked, though they were frustratingly vague, centering on Roanoke Ridge and the Heartlands.
Caleb's own name was conspicuously absent. He had kept himself hidden and disguised, combined with him joining the gang after the Blackwater Massacre, which helped since the Pinkertons didn't know of his presence inside the gang. Cornwall only knew him as just the meddling Valentine deputy, not a member of the Van der Linde gang.
He tucked the dossier into his satchel, it was intelligence on his own family, valuable for understanding what their enemy knew.
The room was now plundered, the specialist's teeth pulled. But the snake's head was still giving orders. Caleb slipped back into the hall, relocking the door behind him.
He moved toward Cornwall's office. Light spilled from its second floor windows, and the low rumble of agitated conversation filtered down. Two guards flanked the main door downstairs, alert. Direct approach was impossible.
Caleb circled the building. His knowledge of the layout, gained over two days of observation, included a servants' stairwell at the back and, more importantly, a narrow balcony outside Cornwall's office window, ostensibly for fire safety, but currently serving as Caleb's private eavesdropping gallery.
Using drainpipes and architectural ornaments with a agility bolstered by his high stats, he scaled the wall, his movements as fluid and silent as a spider.
He crouched on the chilly metal balcony, just outside the pool of light from the window. The glass was slightly open, likely to vent Cornwall's cigar smoke. The voices were clear now.
"…understand the urgency, Mister Cornwall," Ferris was saying, his voice calm, measured, a stark contrast to the tycoon's spluttering rage. "But haste is the enemy of precision. Milton and Ross failed because they were reactionary, like swatting at flies. I am methodical. I will find the hive."
"The hive! I don't care about the hive! I want the queen's head on my wall!" Cornwall's voice was a venomous snarl. "They have made me a laughingstock from Valentine to Saint Denis! That bastard deputy, that gang of thieves… they operate with impunity! I pay you for results, not philosophy!"
"You pay me for success," Ferris countered, his tone growing cooler. "My contract stipulates autonomy. I will use your men for legwork, but the investigation is mine. I will begin by re interviewing every witness from Blackwater forward, cross referencing every robbery, every sighting. They have to eat, sleep, and resupply. They leave a trail, however faint. I will find it."
There was a sound of glass clinking, liquid being poured. Cornwall, trying to regain control. "Fine. Your methods. But I want weekly reports. And I want them found before the snow melts. Capture them all. I want to look Dutch van der Linde in the eye before he hangs. The others… I don't care. Put them in the ground."
"Capture is more difficult than elimination. It raises the risk."
"I am not interested in your risk assessment! I want my trophy! Do this, and the bonus I promised is yours. A small fortune. Enough to retire. Fail me…" Cornwall's voice dropped to a menacing whisper. "And you will find the resources of this company can be turned to other pursuits, such as making a man disappear just as thoroughly as you are meant to make this gang disappear."
The threat hung in the air. Caleb could almost feel Ferris's icy disdain through the window.
"Understood," Ferris said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to review the files in my quarters and begin at first light."
"Go. And remember, time is money. My money."
Footsteps approached the door. Caleb pressed himself flat against the wall. The office door opened and closed inside, and soon after, he saw Ferris's lean figure emerge from the building below, striding with purpose toward the living quarters. He was heading back to a room now missing its best weapons and its crucial intelligence.
Caleb waited on the balcony, the cold seeping into his bones. The office light still burned. Cornwall was likely stewing, drinking. This was the moment. The specialist was isolated, returning to a compromised room. The patron was alone, guarded only by men outside the door.
The plan refined itself. Killing Ferris in his room was clean, and it might take hours for the body to be discovered, create a much larger psychological impact.
So he retreated back into the maze of corridors, heart steady, mind already planning the next minutes. Ferris would return to his room soon. A man like that would review his papers, clean his weapons, well, the ones Caleb hadn't already stolen, and prepare for the morning.
This was the window.
Caleb positioned himself in a storage alcove across from Ferris's door and waited. The compound settled into late night rhythms, a coughing guard downstairs, the clink of bottles from the office, distant machinery groaning like a tired beast.
He heard the sounds of footsteps approached. Ferris appeared at the end of the hall carrying his leather case, face unreadable. He paused only once, scanning the corridor with those pale surveyor eyes. Caleb didn't breathe.
...
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, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, & 1 Carcano
Bank: -