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...
The moment the words settled, her composure cracked completely. Mary-Beth gasped, then broke down into sobs, her hands clutching at Caleb's arm as she leaned into him, burying her face against his sleeve. Her shoulders shook as everything she'd been holding back poured out all at once, fear, betrayal, grief for the man she'd once looked up to.
Caleb didn't hesitate. He wrapped his free arm around her and gently stroked the top of her head, slow and steady, letting her cry without rushing her, without trying to fix it.
"It's alright," he murmured. "I got you. You're safe."
Her sobs were quiet but desperate, as Dutch had been a father figure to her, someone who had spoken gently to her, encouraged her writing, called her "sweet girl" by the fire. To hear him twist her name into something vile had shattered something fragile inside her.
Nearby, voices rose, low, and tense.
Bill and Javier stood a short distance away, where Bill had cornered Javier near one of the supply crates, his face flushed with agitation, Bill shifted his weight, fists clenching and unclenching.
"We shouldn't just let this happen," Bill muttered finally, his voice low but agitated. "He's still Dutch. He said some awful things, sure, but hell, we all do when we're pushed. Maybe if someone actually listened to him—"
Javier shook his head slowly. "No."
Bill frowned. "What do you mean, no?"
"I mean listen to what Dutch had said," Javier replied, not unkindly, but firmly. "That wasn't a man who needed to be heard. That was a man who wanted everyone else to burn so he didn't have to feel alone."
Bill scoffed. "You're givin' up on him too, then?"
"I'm openin' my eyes," Javier replied. "That man back there? That ain't the Dutch who saved me. That ain't the man who talked about freedom and loyalty. And chasing his approval now?" Javier shook his head. "That'll only drag you down the same road he's walkin'. And you know where that ends."
Bill opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. For the first time, uncertainty flickered across his face.
Javier stepped closer and clapped a hand on Bill's shoulder. "We don't need his permission to be better men," he said quietly. Then he turned and walked off, leaving Bill standing there in silence.
Bill stood there a long moment, staring after him, before finally turning and heading off in the opposite direction, shoulders heavy, posture smaller than it had been minutes before.
Caleb watched the exchange from the corner of his eye as he held Mary-Beth. When Mary-Beth's sobs began to quiet, he felt a quiet, inward smile form, not of victory, not joy, not satisfaction, but something quieter its release.
For the first time since he'd joined the gang, he could feel it, the camp was finally loosening its grip on the myth.
Dutch's control. Dutch's shadow. The unspoken pressure to orbit Dutch, to excuse him, to reinterpret every cruelty as genius or necessity. The memories that kept them clinging to a man who no longer existed. They were free of it now. Even if they didn't all realize it yet.
Across the camp, the clearing of Dutch's tent was nearly finished. At Dutch's tent, Miss Grimshaw and Pearson emerged carrying bundles of clothing and personal items, followed by Karen emerged carrying a final bundle of clothing. Tilly followed with a box of papers.
Sean lugged out a small crate, setting it down with a grunt. Lenny came last, holding a worn coat he looked at for a moment before placing it gently atop the pile. They piled the belongings neatly away from the tent, the process efficient, almost clinical.
Miss Grimshaw surveyed the cleared interior, then nodded once. "That's it."
Dutch continued murmuring, oblivious.
Hosea stepped forward. He looked at Dutch, who continued to murmur to himself, eyes unfocused, then nodded once. "That'll do."
He turned to Arthur. "Arthur. Sean. Lenny. Help me."
Arthur nodded immediately.
The three men approached the chair. Arthur took one side, Lenny the other, Sean steadying the back. Together, they lifted the chair, Dutch still bound in it, and carried him into the tent. The canvas swallowed them whole as they set the chair down inside, near the center of the tent.
Then they came back out.
Hosea drew the flap closed most of the way, leaving just enough space for air.
"Arthur," he said. "Lenny. You're on guard. We'll rotate later."
Both nodded. Arthur leaned against a crate near the tent entrance, rifle resting easily in his hands. Lenny stood opposite, posture alert but subdued.
The camp slowly began to move again. Not back to normal, never that, but into something new. A fragile, uneasy order.
Caleb watched all of it from the fire.
Caleb waited until Mary-Beth's breathing had evened out. She wiped her eyes, embarrassed, but he just smiled softly.
"You good?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yeah. I… thank you."
He gently squeezed her shoulder. "I'm gonna go talk to Arthur for a second," he said softly. "You okay sittin' here a moment?"
She looked up at him, eyes red but clearer now. "Yeah," she said. "Just… don't take too long."
He smiled and nodded. "I won't."
He stood and turned toward Dutch's tent, but instead of going straight to Arthur, he slowed, thinking. This was the moment.
Arthur noticed him immediately. "You alright?" Arthur asked quietly as Caleb approached.
"I will be," Caleb replied. ""Mary-Beth's with the fire. I was hopin'… maybe I could talk to him."
Arthur's brow furrowed. "You sure?"
Caleb nodded once. "Yeah. I won't be long and I won't provoke him."
Arthur considered it, then glanced at the tent. After a moment, he stepped aside and lifted the flap just enough.
"Five minutes," he said. "I'm right here."
Caleb ducked inside.
The tent was dim, lit only by filtered daylight through the canvas. Dutch sat where they'd left him, chair positioned near the bed, ropes still tight. The gramophone rested on a small crate nearby, silent. A couple of books lay stacked neatly, untouched.
Dutch was muttering again, rocking faintly.
"…they never understood… always too blind…"
Caleb pulled up a crate and sat across from him, close enough that Dutch couldn't pretend he wasn't there.
"Dutch," Caleb said calmly.
The muttering stopped.
Slowly, Dutch lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, unfocused, but sharp with resentment when they found Caleb.
"You," Dutch rasped. "Come to gloat?"
Caleb shook his head. "No. I came to tell you somethin'."
Dutch sneered. "You already took everything from me."
"I didn't," Caleb said evenly. "You burned it yourself."
Dutch laughed weakly. "You think you're better than me?"
"No," Caleb replied. "I think I learned from you. And then I watched you stop learnin'."
For a moment, Dutch just stared at him. Then his lips curled. "They chose you," he whispered. "You know that, don't you?"
"They chose livin'," Caleb said. "There's a difference."
Silence stretched between them.
"You don't scare me," Dutch muttered at last.
Caleb leaned forward slightly. "I know. But you scare them. And that's why you're sittin' here."
Dutch's gaze flickered, just for a second, with something like doubt. Then it hardened again.
"They'll regret this," he said.
Caleb shake his head. "Maybe. But they won't regret not bein' you."
Dutch's eyes flared. "I built this family!"
"And you broke it," Caleb said calmly.
Silence stretched between them.
Dutch leaned back slightly, studying him. "You think you won."
Caleb shook his head. "There ain't no winners here."
Dutch's lips curled. "You think Arthur'll save them? Hosea? They'll fail. They'll crawl back to me."
Caleb met his gaze steadily. "No. They won't."
Dutch's expression twitched. "You sound sure."
"I am."
Dutch laughed again, hollow. "You don't understand the world like I do."
"I understand it enough," Caleb said. "Enough to know that what you're feelin' right now? That ain't enlightenment. That's fear."
"Get out," Dutch said quietly.
"I will," Caleb replied, standing. "But I want you to hear this first."
Dutch glared at him.
"You didn't lose them because they stopped believin'," Caleb said. "You lost them because you stopped carin'."
Dutch said nothing.
He turned and left the tent.
Outside, Arthur watched him closely. "You done?"
"Yeah," Caleb said.
Arthur nodded and lifted the flap closed again.
Then, Arthur watched him go back toward the fire, where Mary-Beth waited. The camp had settled into a tense, exhausted quiet, people moving, talking in hushed tones, adapting to a new reality.
Behind the canvas, Dutch van der Linde sat alone with his books, his bed, and the echo of a world that no longer revolved around him.
After that three days passed.
They were not easy days. They were not peaceful days. But they were better days.
The camp still carried an uneasy, fragile order, like cracked glass carefully set back into a window frame. Everyone knew it could shatter again if handled wrong. Yet, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the sharpest edges began to dull.
Hosea made sure of that. He, who was older and wearier than he'd ever been, became the camp's guiding hand rather than its commanding voice.
True to the words he had spoken in front of everyone, decisions were no longer handed down from a single voice. There were no dramatic speeches, no grand declarations. Instead, there were gatherings by the fire. Quiet discussions over breakfast. Arguments that ended not in shouting, but in compromise.
"What do you think?" became the most important question in camp.
It was clumsy at first, Bill would shout over Karen, Pearson would get lost in tangents about supplies, and Uncle would offer profoundly unhelpful commentary about his lumbago.
But one this is true, and that they spoke more freely now. They disagreed without fear. No one felt the need to shape their words to please a leader or second guess whether doubt would be taken as betrayal.
But slowly, a pattern emerged. Voices were heard. Opinions on patrol routes, supply runs, even whether to risk hunting in a certain area, were weighed by the group.
Even Bill, once a blind loyalist, found he liked having his say, his chest puffing out a little when Hosea nodded and said, "Bill's got a point about the eastern side being too open."
It felt strange.
It felt honest.
Hosea also made another decision early on, one that raised a few eyebrows but earned little resistance.
Arthur became his right hand.
Caleb became his left.
Arthur was the backbone, experience, grit, instinct honed by years of blood and consequence. Caleb was the balance, observation, planning, foresight shaped by knowing where blind faith led. Together, they formed something new, not a command structure, but a support system.
If someone had something to report but didn't know how to say it to Hosea, they went to Arthur.
If someone had an idea, a concern, a fear they didn't want laughed off, they went to Caleb.
And Caleb made sure of something important from the very beginning.
He worked.
He helped Pearson haul supplies. He fixed wagons. He stood watch when asked. He listened far more than he spoke. He never acted like the position meant anything more than responsibility. No posturing. No authority for authority's sake.
If anyone in camp had wondered whether he wanted to replace Dutch, those doubts evaporated within days.
Caleb didn't want the throne.
He wanted stability.
On the fourth morning, the camp woke under a pale sky, the air cool and moving. Leaves rustled overhead, and the stream at the edge of camp whispered steadily, unchanged by human turmoil.
Caleb stood beneath one of the larger trees with Mary-Beth, the breeze lifting loose strands of her hair as she leaned against the trunk. For the first time since the incident, she looked genuinely calm, still subdued, still healing, but no longer brittle.
...
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 4)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 4)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 4)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 3)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 2)
- Crafting (Lvl 3)
- Persuasion (Lvl 4)
- 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: 3,726 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 112,892 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 65 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
Bank: -