Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Colter Village

 1899, Ambarino, Spider Gorge, Colter Village.
Inside a dilapidated wooden cabin.

“Mac, feeling any better?”

Logan Song asked Mac Callander, who lay on the bed.

It had been nearly a month since Davey Callander had found himself reborn in the world of Red Dead Redemption. This gunslinger—who had originally died upon his first appearance in Red Dead Redemption 2—had, against all odds, survived.

Thinking back to the Blackwater ferry robbery still sent a chill through Logan Song’s chest. He’d known the cash ferry was a Pinkerton trap, but by the time he realized it, he was already aboard—there was no turning back. Fortunately, he had kept his wits; right after the job, he dragged Mac Callander out as fast as he could, and that quick decision had saved their lives. Still, Mac had been shot during the retreat.

“Davey, this scratch won’t kill me—ha. If I had a glass of whiskey right now, I’d be a happy man. Cough, cough,” Mac said with a laugh.

Logan Song—or rather, Davey—replied coldly, “We got off to a good start, then things went wrong. The moment I boarded, I felt something was off. It was a Pinkerton setup, and Dutch led us right into it like a herd of dumb pigs. If I hadn’t reacted fast, we’d have died there. Did you see? They had the Maxims ready.”

Mac’s expression darkened at the mention of the Maxim gun. He trusted his aim, but against a heavy machine gun like that, even the best revolver was useless.

“At least we lived to tell the tale, right?” Mac said, his eyes showing a flicker of gratitude.

Davey nodded and said nothing more.

After the failed Blackwater heist, gang leader Dutch led the battered remnants on a grim retreat to avoid capture and ended up here.

Dutch had sent John and Micah Bell to scout ahead, but when they didn’t return, he took Arthur Morgan to look for them himself.

...

An alarm call went up outside.

“Hey—someone’s coming!”

Davey called back, then pushed open the cabin door. A blast of bitter cold rushed in, jolting him fully awake.

Outside, Lenny stood with his gun raised, tense; when he saw Davey come out, he visibly relaxed. Davey drew his revolver and stood beside him.

Through the falling snow, three horsemen gradually appeared, riding slowly through the storm.

“Looks like Dutch,” Lenny said, relieved.

“Hey, everyone—come quick, Dutch’s back!”

Dutch rode into camp and addressed the gathered group. “Micah found a farmstead, but... he wasn’t first. Colm O’Driscoll and his men beat us to it. We found some of their people there, but clearly there are more. Some were scouting the train.”

Hosea Matthews added, “That’s hardly good news, Dutch.”

“Yeah, but that’s how it is,” Dutch said.

A tall, burly man with pale-gold hair, a full beard, and green eyes dismounted behind Dutch. It was Arthur Morgan.

“We found some supplies—blankets, a little food—and poor Sadie Adler.”

“Miss Tilly, Miss Karen, please help warm her up and get her something to drink.”

“Sadie Adler, it’ll be alright. You’re safe now.”

Arthur looked exhausted as he watched Sadie being led away by Tilly and Karen. “I haven’t slept in three days. I need rest,” he muttered.

Davey watched Sadie nearby. She would later be known among players as the “badass widow,” but right now, she was simply a woman who had just lost her husband.

“Hey, Davey—how’s Mac doing?” Dutch asked as he approached.

Within the Van der Linde Gang, the top tier was Arthur and the Callander brothers. That was why Dutch hadn’t brought Arthur on the Blackwater ferry job. In overall ability, the Callander brothers now even outshone Arthur—they were the gang’s core fighting strength.

“He’s lucky to be alive. Give it some time, and he’ll be back on his feet,” Davey said calmly. He knew this wasn’t the time to pick a fight with Dutch.

“Davey, the camp’s running low on food. I want you to take care of it,” Dutch said.

Davey refused. “Dutch, Mac’s my brother. He’s still in bed, and I’m not in the headspace to hunt. Maybe Arthur can go.”

Until now, the Callander brothers had always handled the gang’s hunting and never once failed. The thought that they were twins made Dutch’s frown ease slightly. “Alright. I’ll go with your call this time.”

The next day, John still hadn’t returned. Abigail asked Arthur for help. Arthur and Javier found John, who’d been mauled by wolves and left with scars across his face.

Davey didn’t care about the camp’s business anymore; his mind was already on how to get out. Leaving the Van der Linde Gang was inevitable—staying with Dutch would only lead to ruin—but when to leave was the question.

Days later, Dutch learned the location of the O’Driscoll camp and prepared to strike. Davey refused again, citing his duty to care for Mac.

“Davey, maybe you shouldn’t talk to Dutch like that,” Arthur said as they parted. At this point, Arthur still idolized Dutch.

“Arthur, you know Mac’s my brother. I have to look after him,” Davey replied. Arthur couldn’t argue with that.

Dutch’s raid went smoothly. The O’Driscoll foot soldiers were no match for Arthur and the gang. They secured detailed intel on Colm’s train robbery plan and seized their dynamite. On the way back, they ran into one of Colm’s men. Arthur captured him alive—Kieran Duffy, who would later lose his head. Back at camp, Dutch planned to starve him into talking.

...

Several weeks passed.

Mac’s wounds had healed, and Davey could no longer avoid hunting duty. The Callander brothers resumed providing food for the camp.

Fresh from a hunt, the brothers returned to find Dutch arguing with Hosea.

“Why are we doing this? The weather’s better—we can leave anytime,” Hosea said. “I thought we were supposed to keep a low profile.”

Hosea, a senior elder and one of the Van der Linde Gang’s most important members, felt Dutch’s authority falter at his words.

“What do you want me to do, Hosea?” Dutch stopped and fixed him with a stare.

Under that look, Hosea softened. “I just don’t want any more of us to die, Dutch.”

Dutch’s voice rose. “We didn’t die! Look—I didn’t die, you didn’t die, Arthur, the Callander brothers—we’re all still here. But we need money. A lot of it. Everything we owned is back in Blackwater. Do you want to go back there?”

“No,” Hosea said. “Listen, Dutch, I’m not trying to contradict you. I just want to stick to the plan: keep low for a while, then head back west. But now you want to rob a train.”

Chapter Text

“Leviticus Cornwall is no pushover—he’s a successful railroad tycoon, a sugar merchant, and an oil baron.”

Hosea spoke up, laying out what he knew and sounding worried.

Dutch shrugged. “That’s good. Sounds like he’s got plenty of valuables worth taking.”

“All right, gentlemen, let’s figure out the plan to make some money. We can move out tomorrow.”

Dutch paid no more mind to Hosea and started arranging the details of the train robbery. Naturally, core fighters like the Callander brothers would be part of it.

Mac Callander perked up. “Been lying in bed for days—feel like I’m rusting.”

Davey felt a mix of irritation and resignation toward his brother. The Callander twins had always been criminals; that was their nature.

“Okay, go get ready. I’ll talk to Hosea,” Davey said, sending Mac off and moving to Hosea’s side.

Hosea’s face was drawn with worry. “You don’t back my idea, do you, Davey?” he asked, assuming Davey had come to argue.

After all, the Callander brothers usually wanted action.

“No, Hosea. I agree with you. Right now we shouldn’t be robbing a tycoon’s train—that just makes our situation worse,” Davey said, shaking his head.

Hosea looked taken aback; he hadn’t expected Davey to side with him. “You’re right, Davey. We should keep a low profile. If it weren’t for this blizzard, we’d never have escaped the Pinkertons.”

“Getting Cornwall’s ire would be foolish. If our identities come out and he teams up with the Pinkertons, we’ll be in real trouble.”

Davey continued, “Dutch thinks we can pin this on the O’Driscoll Gang, but that’s too risky. The Pinkertons already have their eyes on us—Dutch is underestimating them.”

“If the Pinkertons trace this back to us, Cornwall will gladly pay a fortune to see us captured.”

“A single train isn’t much to Cornwall, but he’ll spend whatever it takes to save face.”

Hosea’s worry deepened. He could already picture how badly the gang might be cornered.

“But Dutch… Dutch won’t accept that. Not even if the plan is this bad.”

“You, Davey—I thought you’d be the one itching to rob the train,” Hosea said with a sigh, then turned to Davey, curious.

Davey gave a wry smile. “It’s the Pinkertons. You know Mac and I have pulled plenty of jobs, but we never dared provoke Pinkerton. Now they’ve got us in their sights.”

“The Blackwater job was a Pinkerton trap.”

“We got out, but we made the Pinkertons lose face. They’ll be crazier for it. I don’t want to poke them.”

Hosea nodded in admiration. “Davey, you’re right. Pinkerton is a massive problem for us.”

“I get why Dutch wants to rob the train—being hunted nonstop has everyone on edge. He thinks a big job will lift spirits.”

Hosea sighed. As a gang, a successful heist does raise morale—especially with everyone demoralized by the storm and the chase.

Davey said, “Dutch’s aim isn’t wrong, but he’s ignoring our situation. There’s no need to anger a tycoon. That’ll be worse than making the feds mad.”

From Davey’s memory of the game’s storyline, Pinkerton’s relentless pursuit of the Van der Linde Gang hinged on financial backing from Cornwall. Otherwise, even as outlaws the gang wouldn’t have been singled out so intensely. In earlier years around Blackwater, the gang had carried out dozens of robberies without drawing that level of Pinkerton attention. Pinkerton didn’t chase every outlaw—they worked for the wealthy.

After exchanging thoughts with Hosea, Davey went back to his cabin.

...

Mac was at the table, cleaning and oiling his revolver.

“Robbing a train—that’s a hell of a plan. We’ll have a fortune in no time,” Mac grinned when he saw Davey come in.

Davey’s face went cold. “Mac, my brother, maybe I should have let you die on that ferry. Would’ve been better than keeping you around with that pig-headedness.”

Mac blinked, genuinely confused. “Davey—what’s wrong with you?”

Big and strong but not the sharpest, Mac couldn’t see why his brother was angry.

Davey snorted. “We’re already on Pinkerton’s radar, and now you want to piss off a tycoon? You think life’s been easy for you?”

“How much is in one train anyway—hundreds, a few thousand? Not enough to change our lives.”

“But if Cornwall hires Pinkerton to hunt us, we’ll end up like on that ferry.”

“We got lucky this time. What about next time? Or the time after that?”

“Mac, my brother, you’ll be shredded by a Maxim.”

At the mention of the Maxim, Mac’s shoulders sagged. “All right, Davey. I’ll listen to you, brother.”

Back then, a common laborer in America made about $200–$400 a year. A few hundred or a few thousand dollars sounded immense—but half of any haul had to go to the gang, and the rest was split, leaving each member with far less than it appeared.

For the Callander brothers, a few hundred dollars wasn’t a big deal. They’d robbed coaches, rich men, and even banks before, and would have easily secured much more if not for Blackwater. If the Blackwater affair hadn’t happened, they’d already have thousands saved.

As the gang’s main fighting force, the brothers’ shooting and brawling skills were top-notch. Mac once beat fifteen sailors on his own—that proved his hand-to-hand prowess. Davey as the elder was no slouch either.

Bill used to brag he could take twenty sailors—that was when the Callanders were dead. He wouldn’t dare say that now, not if he wanted to keep his teeth.

In the Van der Linde Gang, the Callander brothers walked tall. Even Arthur, alone, couldn’t handle them both. If Davey decided to leave the gang outright, Dutch could only watch. As twins, Mac would follow his brother.

Of course, Davey hadn’t found a clear way out yet. For now, staying with Dutch was the best option. At least—for the moment.

Chapter Text

In the small cabin next to Davey’s, the injured John lay in bed while his wife Abigail tended him.

Abigail had grown up in bars—born to prostitution and petty theft. She’d joined the Van der Linde gang through an introduction from an Uncle in the crew. How the Uncle knew Abigail doesn’t need spelling out.

Davey felt a little awkward around Abigail. In his original life’s memories he’d shared more than a few good nights with her. He’d even wondered if Little Jack might be his son—Davey was blond, while John and Abigail were dark-haired. It wasn’t an idea unique to him; plenty in the gang likely suspected the same, including Arthur and Dutch. Oh, and the Uncle too.

Maybe that helped explain why, in the original game’s story, the gang reacted so furiously when Little Jack was taken. Arthur hadn’t yet fallen ill with TB, so there was no talk of redemption. For Arthur, finding a woman in a saloon or a hotel was normal—besides his ex, Mary, he’d once fathered a boy named Isaac with a waitress, though tragedy later followed.

John Marston, however, was clearly using the gang’s resources for his own purposes.

The Callander brothers weren’t popular in the camp—partly because of how they’d behaved earlier. Riding on their reputation as top fighters, they’d bullied people and acted like they owned the place. Across the gang, women had little say in matters. Bill and Javier were much like Arthur: loyal followers of Dutch. Micah was the notorious rat—no need to elaborate.

Then there was Charles, the recently joined mixed Native American and Black man. The Callander brothers had never been friendly with him; they’d discriminated against him before. The main point of contention had been hunting: Charles held a deep reverence for the buffalo, and the brothers had once shot several buffalo deliberately to mock him, creating serious friction. Charles wasn’t a match for them, and Dutch had to step in to mediate.

...

While Davey was looking after Mac, the door swung open and Arthur came in.

“Hey, Davey, Mac—Dutch wants you two over. We need to get ready for the train job.”

Davey asked, “Arthur, do you really think robbing that tycoon Cornwall’s train will make life any better for us?”

Arthur looked surprised; he hadn’t expected Davey to voice doubts like that.

“Davey, you’ve got to trust Dutch. He’s got a big plan,” Arthur said automatically in defense of Dutch. “But I’m more with Hosea on this. You know I’ve always backed Dutch—otherwise I wouldn’t have gone with him to rob that ferry at Blackwater.”

“I regret that job now. If we hadn’t done the ferry and had instead joined you and Hosea in scamming those real estate men, we wouldn’t be living like this. We wouldn’t have drawn Pinkerton’s attention.”

Arthur sighed. “Yeah. Things would be better. But that’s past, isn’t it, Davey? All our savings are stuck in Blackwater, and we can’t go back. We need money—more money.”

“Listen, Davey. Dutch has learned there’s a large shipment of bearer bonds on this train. If we can get them, we’ll have the cash.”

Davey shook his head. “Bearer bonds could fetch a lot, sure, but pissing off Cornwall will put Pinkerton on us in a way we can’t handle. Pinkerton has informants everywhere. Under these circumstances, selling those bonds will be nearly impossible. Even if we manage to offload them, we’d only get a small cut; greedy middlemen would bleed us dry.”

“Even if those bonds are worth tens of thousands, we’d probably only net a few thousand.”

“Arthur, you know a few thousand dollars isn’t nearly enough for us.”

“And provoking Pinkerton? That’s not a problem a few thousand dollars can fix.”

Arthur hadn’t thought through that angle and didn’t know how to answer.

Davey went on, “I back Hosea. We should keep our heads down, not invite more trouble. That train belongs to a tycoon named Cornwall—he’s richer than we imagine. If we cross him, he’ll hire Pinkerton to come after us. Dutch’s idea of pinning it on the O’Driscoll Gang is a bad plan. Pinkerton has so many informants they’d easily figure out the O’Driscolls weren’t responsible.”

“They’ll suspect us. Even without conclusive proof, Pinkerton will splash the blame onto us just to secure Cornwall’s contract. Then they’ll reach into Ambarino—maybe even New Hanover.”

“Then our situation will be far worse. We can’t handle Pinkerton. You know what happens if they catch us? We’ll be taken and hanged on the gallows.”

Chapter Text

Hearing that, Arthur looked visibly confused.
He knew Davey wasn’t wrong—thousands of dollars sounded like a lot, but for the Van der Linde Gang, it wasn’t much at all.
Before the Blackwater robbery, Arthur himself had over a thousand dollars, and that was only because he spent freely.
Even before joining the gang, the Callander brothers had already made a name for themselves as notorious robbers—and they clearly had far more money than he did.

“Think about it,” Davey said. “We’re talking about the Pinkertons. Once they’ve set their sights on a gang, life gets rough. And now we’re about to cross a tycoon too. If those two join forces...”

He trailed off, letting the silence finish the thought for him. Arthur understood well enough.
The worry flickering in Arthur’s eyes told Davey he’d made his point. No one could ignore the threat of the Pinkerton Detective Agency—least of all the outlaws of the West.

The Pinkertons’ reputation was written in blood.
Back in 1850, a Scotsman named Allan Pinkerton—who had gained fame for foiling an assassination plot against Lincoln during his campaign—founded a security company with Chicago lawyer Edward Rucker.
That private security firm became the foundation of what would later be known as the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.

During the Civil War, President Lincoln entrusted his personal protection to Pinkerton agents, and Pinkerton himself famously exposed a Confederate spy.
Incidentally, on the night Lincoln was assassinated after the war, his security had been handled not by the agency, but by the U.S. Army.

In 1871, Congress allocated $50,000 to the newly established Department of Justice to create an auxiliary division responsible for “tracking down and prosecuting violators of federal law.”
But that budget was nowhere near enough to cover the vast stretches of the country, so the DOJ outsourced the work to the Pinkertons.

That marked the beginning of the agency’s rise to glory.
Countless cowboys were captured under their pursuit, and many notorious gangs were torn apart because of them.
At their peak, the Pinkertons employed more agents than the entire U.S. Army.
To many cowboys, the Pinkertons were the federal army.

Of course, the uneducated Arthur had no idea that by this time, the Anti-Pinkerton Act had already been passed. The agency had lost its law enforcement powers and was now little more than a band of glorified bounty hunters.

“Maybe we should talk to Dutch,” Arthur said worriedly. “Give up on this train job.”
Though loyal to Dutch, Arthur had his own doubts—mostly because of Hosea.
When Hosea and Dutch had argued earlier, Arthur had quietly felt Hosea was right.
Now, after hearing Davey’s reasoning, he was convinced this plan was a bad one.

Davey didn’t press the matter further. He’d already accomplished plenty.
In truth, a thorn had already lodged itself deep in Arthur’s heart.
It dated back to the ferry robbery, when Dutch had mercilessly killed a girl during their escape.

Dutch had always preached that their gang had principles—that they weren’t like the other lawless outlaws who killed indiscriminately.
Rob those who deserve to be robbed. Kill only those who deserve to die.
That was the Van der Linde Gang’s creed.

Dutch’s actions had gone against everything he claimed to stand for.
Arthur had written the incident down in his journal, but he hadn’t confronted Dutch—it would have weakened Dutch’s authority over the gang.

Davey called for his younger brother, Mac, and together with Arthur, they headed to the largest cabin in camp—the one Dutch used as his quarters.
As they neared the door, Dutch’s furious shouting could be heard from inside.

“Enough, Hosea! The Blackwater job was just an accident!”

Pushing open the door, they found Dutch, face flushed with anger, glaring at Hosea.
It was clear they were arguing about the train robbery.
Seeing the Callander brothers and Arthur arrive seemed to bolster Dutch’s confidence.

“We need money—real money. This train job will pull us out of the hole we’re in. It’s a load of bearer bonds, and it’ll put us back on top again!”
“Davey, Mac, Arthur—you’re with me, right? Hosea’s too timid to even go after a train!”

He gave a sharp laugh. “Davey, I remember you’ve robbed plenty of trains before. Maybe you can tell us how to make this one run smoother.”

To Dutch’s surprise, Davey didn’t take the bait. Instead, he shook his head.
“Dutch, listen. Maybe we should think about what Hosea said. Crossing a tycoon like that—it’s not a smart move.”

Dutch’s smile froze. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing from one of the Callander brothers.

“Arthur, Arthur, my boy,” he said, his voice tight. “You think the same?”

He didn’t bother asking Mac—he already knew Mac followed Davey’s lead.

“Dutch, you’re right—we do need a big score,” Arthur began carefully. “But angering a tycoon will only make things worse for us, won’t it?”

If Davey’s words had stiffened Dutch, Arthur’s left him stunned.
This was the boy he’d raised since childhood—and now even he was questioning him.
At that moment, Dutch felt his authority slipping through his fingers.

He no longer cared about the consequences. The train job had to happen—if only to reassert his control.

“Bill, Javier, Lenny, Micah—what about you?” Dutch’s expression darkened further.

Micah stepped forward first. “Dutch, you know I’ve always stood with you.”
“Sure, the Blackwater thing went sideways, but we all made it out alive, didn’t we? We didn’t fail—we got the money. Once things cool off, we can go back and get it.”
“Arthur, Davey—we should trust Dutch. He’s got a grand plan. We’ll make it.”

After Micah spoke, Bill and Javier added, “Dutch, we’re with you.”
The younger Lenny quickly agreed as well.

Dutch’s expression eased a little. At least some of the gang still backed him.
He didn’t turn his anger on Arthur or Davey; instead, his cold gaze fixed on Hosea.

To Dutch, this was all Hosea’s doing.
Arthur, the Callander brothers, even Charles—they’d all been swayed by him.
Not long ago, the Callanders had been among his strongest supporters.

Under Dutch’s intense glare, Hosea knew he couldn’t keep pushing.
To do so now would only damage Dutch’s authority as leader.
He sighed inwardly, ready to back down.

But Davey wasn’t about to let such an opportunity slip away...

Chapter Text

Davey suddenly snapped, as if something had set him off. He pulled the revolver from his hip and aimed it straight at Micah Bell.
The room instantly filled with tension.
No one had expected Davey to draw his gun so suddenly.

“Davey! What the hell are you doing?”
Dutch, momentarily forgetting about Hosea, shouted at him. Even he instinctively rested a hand on his own holster.

As Davey’s younger brother, Mac—though still a bit confused—did the same, hand hovering over his gun, ready to draw if needed.
The suffocating tension made everyone else in the room unconsciously reach for their weapons too.

Aside from John, who was still recovering from his wounds, everyone present was part of the Van der Linde Gang’s main fighting force.
Dutch had never imagined things would escalate this far.

“Dutch, Dutch! Why the hell do you trust that rat? Just because he shared a drink with you at the saloon?” Davey barked.
“We never needed to rob that ferry in the first place. The tip came from him—and look what happened to us!”
“Everything went way too smoothly when we boarded that boat. It was clearly a trap set by the Pinkertons. We walked right into it!”
“If I hadn’t realized something was wrong the moment we got on, Mac and I would’ve been shredded by a Maxim gun. Even so, my brother nearly died because of it!”
“He’s a damn spy! And this train job he’s pushing for—it’s got to be another Pinkerton setup!”

Davey’s face was flushed deep red, his furious roar echoing across the camp.
Anyone could see he was on edge, his emotions teetering on the brink.

‘That lunatic,’ Dutch cursed inwardly.
This was typical Davey.

The Callander brothers had always been wild, true outlaws even among outlaws. Compared to the rest of the Van der Linde Gang, they were the real desperados.

The shouting drew people from around the camp.
Susan Grimshaw appeared, a shotgun gripped firmly in her hands.
Everyone had heard what was said inside. Now that Mrs. Grimshaw understood the cause of the conflict, she was ready to end it with a single shot.

In her mind, Micah Bell’s arrival had brought nothing but discord to the gang. Kill him, and everything would return to order.

Micah reacted fast. The moment he sensed Mrs. Grimshaw’s intent, he darted behind Dutch for cover.
He hadn’t done so earlier because, despite Davey’s fury, the man’s finger had never touched the trigger—it had been more of a threat than a real intention to shoot.
But Mrs. Grimshaw was a different story.
She was more than capable of pulling that trigger.

A flicker of regret crossed Davey’s eyes.
If Susan Grimshaw had blown Micah’s head off right there, it would’ve been a beautiful sight.
But she hesitated—just for a moment—and that moment passed.

“Enough! Davey, put the gun down! You too, Mrs. Grimshaw!” Dutch bellowed, his voice sharp with anger. Things were spiraling out of control, and he had to put a stop to it.

Davey finally relented, sliding his revolver back into its holster. He glared coldly at Micah, then turned to Dutch.
“Dutch, if you choose to trust him, then we won’t be joining you for this train job.”

Without waiting for a reply, Davey turned and walked out. Mac followed close behind.
Everything had happened so fast that most people hadn’t even processed it yet.

The Callander brothers were the gang’s strongest fighters. Much of the Van der Linde Gang’s success over the years was thanks to them.
Arthur might have been one of the best now, but he still hadn’t reached his full potential.

Hosea looked as if he wanted to speak, but he knew it was pointless. Dutch’s plan to rob the train was set in stone now.
Unless... they killed Micah Bell.
But everyone knew that would never happen.

Dutch knew it better than anyone—if he killed Micah, it would make him look like he’d caved to the Callander brothers’ pressure, and Dutch Van der Linde would never allow himself to be threatened.

“Let’s move on,” Dutch said calmly, as if nothing had happened. “It’s time to finalize the train robbery plan. Anyone still not on board?”

Outside, Mrs. Grimshaw was driving away the onlookers who had gathered around.
“Back to work, all of you!” she barked.

Once the cabin door shut, Hosea said nothing more.
Charles stayed silent too.
But in everyone’s eyes as they looked at Micah Bell, there was a simmering anger that couldn’t be hidden.

No one blamed the Callander brothers.
If it hadn’t been for Micah Bell, the gang never would’ve robbed that cash-loaded ferry in Blackwater, and none of this would’ve happened.
If it hadn’t been for Micah Bell, the Callander brothers wouldn’t have fallen out with Dutch.

Oh, damn Micah Bell.

Chapter Text

Stepping out of the cabin, Davey headed off to find Pearson and grab something to eat.

“Hey, Davey.”
Susan Grimshaw approached him.
She had once been Dutch’s lover, but after Molly entered the picture, Dutch had gradually grown distant from her.
Still, there was no denying her importance to the gang—she managed their logistics and supplies with precision and order.

“Susan, if you’re here to speak up for that rat Micah Bell, save your breath.”
Davey’s tone was sharp and unwelcoming.
That was just how the Callander brothers were—always had been, always would be.

“Oh, Davey, of course not! You saw it yourself—if he hadn’t hidden behind Dutch, I’d have blown his head off right then and there,” Susan said quickly.
Hearing that, Davey’s expression softened a little. “Mrs. Grimshaw, you know I don’t mean anything against you personally. It’s Dutch—how could he trust an outsider who just joined us?”
“Mac and I have given everything for this gang. We nearly died on that ferry, and yet he still chooses to believe that rat.”
“It’s disappointing—Dutch has changed. He’s not the man he used to be.”

Susan sighed, trying to reason with him. “Dutch... maybe it’s just the situation we’re in. He’s under pressure, restless. Give him some time—he’ll see things clearly again.”

“Let’s hope so.” Davey shrugged and walked away.
There was no point in continuing. As capable as she was, Susan’s loyalty to Dutch ran too deep.

With Mac following behind, Davey made his way to Pearson’s wagon.

“Oh, Davey, Mac! I’m working on the deer and rabbits you two brought back. Want some?”
Pearson gave them a nervous, flattering smile.
He was just the camp cook, not high on the gang’s ladder.

The Callander brothers weren’t to be trifled with—they were real outlaws, dangerous and unrestrained.
Of course, they also did most of the hunting that kept the camp fed.

“Pearson, that stuff you make tastes awful. You got anything else?” Davey asked bluntly.
Without proper seasoning, the venison and rabbit always turned out gamey. It filled your stomach, sure, but it was hard to choke down.

“I’ve got some canned goods and biscuits—Arthur and the others brought them back earlier. Maybe you could try those first,” Pearson offered hastily, rummaging around before pulling out a few tins.

Davey gave them a look, then nodded in approval.
Mac stepped forward to take them from Pearson.

He was Davey’s younger brother, and now he acted every bit the part—quiet, obedient, almost deferential.
It hadn’t always been like this. While Mac had usually followed his brother’s lead, it had never been to this extent.

He didn’t quite know why, but ever since the Blackwater ferry robbery, Davey seemed... different.
More commanding. More intense.

Maybe it was how Davey had looked out for him lately.
Maybe it was the way he’d stood up to Dutch without hesitation.
Or maybe... something else entirely.
Whatever it was, Mac couldn’t shake the feeling that his brother had changed—and it unsettled him.

“Mac, we’re brothers, right? Always have been.”
“No matter what happens, trust me, all right?”
Davey said as he took a can of herring from Mac, opened it with a knife, and glanced over at him.
He’d noticed the shift in Mac’s mood.

“Yes, Davey. We’re brothers—always. Whatever you’re planning, I’m with you.”
Mac could tell Davey had something on his mind, though he didn’t know what.

...

The next morning, noise stirred outside.
Davey got up, dressed, and stepped out of the cabin.
Mac was still asleep.

Outside, Dutch was mounting his horse with Arthur, Bill, Javier, and the others—they were preparing to rob the train.

“Hey, Davey,” Arthur called out in greeting.
Dutch gave a brief nod but said nothing.
Micah Bell avoided Davey’s gaze entirely, afraid of provoking the madman again.

Davey’s presence alone made the air feel heavier.
Dutch said nothing more and led the group out of camp.

Davey began to wander around idly.

“Hey, Davey.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Grimshaw.”
“Good morning, Davey.”
“Good morning, Miss Karen.”

He moved through the camp greeting everyone, as though yesterday’s chaos had never happened.

He stopped by Pearson’s again and grabbed a bowl of stew—thick with venison, rabbit, vegetables, and the faintest trace of spice.
It tasted terrible, but at least it filled him up.

Not long after, Davey walked over to where Kieran Duffy was tied up.

“Oh, the poor little O’Driscoll boy,” Davey said mockingly.

Kieran lifted his head, fear flickering in his eyes.
He didn’t know much about the Van der Linde Gang, but he’d seen how reckless Davey was yesterday—clearly someone with real authority here.

“I’m not one of the O’Driscolls,” Kieran stammered. “I just ran errands for them.”
As he spoke, his eyes fixed hungrily on the bowl in Davey’s hands.

“Please... I haven’t eaten in two days. I’m starving.”

Davey chuckled, lifting the bowl toward Kieran’s mouth before tilting it sharply, pouring the contents straight in.

Kieran barely had time to react as his mouth overflowed with stew. Davey didn’t stop until the bowl was completely empty, most of it spilling onto the ground.

Kieran coughed and swallowed what he could, struggling to get the words out. “Th... thank you... thank you.”

Rough as Davey’s gesture had been, Kieran showed no anger—only pure gratitude shining in his eyes.

Chapter Text

In his past life’s game, Davey had always felt something for Kieran’s character.
He was a pitiful man—ever since joining the Van der Linde Gang, he’d been stuck doing chores, always striving for recognition.
And in the end, he died in the most miserable way.

Kieran wasn’t much of a fighter, but he knew how to handle horses, and his loyalty was unquestionable. Perhaps he could become a reliable ally.
After all, Davey’s future plans didn’t involve living with a gun constantly at his side.

Though both he and Mac were excellent marksmen, the age of the wild cowboy was already fading.
Civilization was pushing deeper into the West—this was the cowboys’ last hurrah.
Even the best gunslinger couldn’t stand up to the hail of a Maxim gun.

This wasn’t a game. A bullet meant death—real death.
He wasn’t the protagonist here, but a man fated to die. There would be no miraculous plot armor protecting him.
That was why Davey chose not to join the train robbery.

Arthur and the others might come out fine, but who could say a stray bullet wouldn’t find him?
Better to stay cautious.

“Hey, Davey.”
Hosea walked over.
“Davey, maybe we pushed Dutch too hard yesterday. It made him feel humiliated.”
Hosea regretted how things had gone—yesterday’s confrontation had shaken the gang, creating rifts among them.

Davey replied bluntly, “Hosea, what’s more important—his pride, or my life? Should we risk everything just to protect his damn ego?”
“Hosea, your reasoning’s sound. I’ve always agreed with you.”

Hosea sighed helplessly. “Davey, we have to trust Dutch. He’s impatient right now, but things will settle down.”
Davey nodded slightly. “We’ll see.”

Mac, on the other hand, couldn’t sit still. He genuinely wanted to go with the others to rob the train.
But he had no choice but to listen to Davey.

So instead, Mac dragged Davey out to hunt.
Maybe that was why Charles couldn’t stand the Callander brothers—they hunted not out of need, but out of habit.

Davey wasn’t particularly interested in hunting.
Still, he agreed, mostly because he wanted to make another trip to Lake Isabella to see if he could find that Arabian white horse.
He’d already been there several times, but this wasn’t a game—the Arabian white wouldn’t just be waiting in the same spot forever.

Lake Isabella was where many animals came to drink, and the Arabian white horse appeared there only occasionally.
With so many tracks around, spotting it was difficult.

Sure enough, though they bagged a few animals on this trip, they didn’t find the horse.
By the time they returned to camp, it was already afternoon.

Dutch and his crew had made it back from the train robbery—successful.

“We have to hand it to Dutch—this job was a total success. We cleaned up good!”
“These bearer bonds are worth tens of thousands of dollars. We’re rich, boys—really rich!”
“Oh, cigars, brandy—the kind of stuff only the big rich bastards get to enjoy.”
“Thanks to Dutch, thanks to Cornwall, even a small-timer like me can taste luxury for once!”

In the middle of camp, Micah Bell strutted around, a cigar in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other, showing off like a fool.
Dutch only smiled beside him, clearly satisfied. He could feel his influence within the gang rising again.

Arthur, Bill, Javier, and Lenny were all grinning too—it was obvious they’d found plenty of good loot in Cornwall’s private car.

That’s when Dutch noticed the Callander brothers returning with their kills.

“Hey, Davey, we did it, didn’t we?”
“No Pinkertons, no traps—we pulled in a huge haul of bearer bonds and plenty of fine goods.”
“Now we just keep things quiet for a while, sell off the bonds, and we’ll have a fortune. Then we can head to Tahiti, buy some land, grow mangoes—live easy.”

Dutch walked over and handed Davey a glass of brandy.
Davey didn’t refuse; he took it and drank deeply.
It was high-quality French brandy, smooth and rich—nothing like the cheap liquor they usually drank.

“Not bad at all,” Davey said with a smile.
Seeing that, Dutch felt the tension between them easing away.
He knew he had to keep the Callander brothers close—without them, the Van der Linde Gang would lose its strongest guns.

“Listen, Davey,” Dutch said, his tone measured. “Even though you didn’t take part in this job, I haven’t forgotten what you and your brother have done. What happened in Blackwater was just an accident—no one wanted that.”
“Once we sell these bonds, you two will get your share.”
“With that kind of money, we can go anywhere we want. Of course, I know it’s still not enough. Once things calm down, we’ll retrieve the cash we left hidden in Blackwater—and then we’ll finally be free.”

After finishing, Dutch turned and called out, “Micah! Bring those cigars and that brandy you took—give some to Davey and Mac!”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Dutch’s voice carried clearly across the camp, loud enough for everyone to hear.
When word spread that he intended to give the Callander brothers a share of the train robbery’s spoils, many faces turned sour with discontent.

Micah Bell looked particularly displeased. He hadn’t expected Dutch to make him hand over the cigars and brandy, and parting with those luxury goods clearly pained him.
Still, Micah understood that Dutch was trying to help smooth things over with the Callander brothers. So, though reluctant, he hurried over and offered the remaining cigars and brandy to Davey.

Davey snorted, refusing to take them himself. Instead, he gave Mac a look.
Mac, who had been eyeing them the whole time, didn’t hesitate once he had Davey’s silent approval. He reached out and snatched them straight from Micah’s hands.

Only after seeing Mac walk away with the cigars and liquor did Dutch finally smile with satisfaction.
Davey saw through the act immediately—this was one of Dutch’s tricks. He was deliberately isolating the Callander brothers from the rest of the camp, tightening his hold over them. It was the move of a leader seeking control.

The combined strength of the Callander brothers was formidable. If they also won the gang’s favor, it would weaken Dutch’s authority as leader. Davey understood that well, but he didn’t care.
“Alright, Dutch. I trust you,” he said evenly.

This wasn’t the time to turn against Dutch. Even if he planned to leave, he’d need another place lined up first.
Not that Davey intended to join another gang—most were far worse than the Van der Linde Gang. At least for now, Dutch’s crew still had some kind of moral line, though Davey knew that line wouldn’t last much longer.

Seeing Davey yield made Dutch genuinely happy. It reminded him of the days when he still had complete control over his men.

So, with renewed confidence, Dutch began another one of his impassioned speeches.
“Hey, listen up, everyone—I’ve got a plan...”

The success of the train robbery had the entire camp in high spirits.
The bonds, worth tens of thousands of dollars, were a glimmer of hope for their future.

Dutch really did have a gift for rallying people. Under his words, Abigail could almost see a peaceful life ahead. Hosea’s face was full of smiles. Karen, Sadie, Pearson—all of them looked genuinely pleased.

Even Mac joined in, happily puffing on expensive cigars and sipping fine brandy.
But only Davey knew: the higher the joy now, the greater the disappointment to come. The fall from heaven to hell would be brutal.

Cornwall wasn’t the only man they had crossed. Those train bonds involved several other magnates—oil tycoons, shipping giants, railroad barons.
Any one of them alone could shake America to its core.
The Van der Linde Gang had offended them all at once. Their days of comfort were numbered.

Money was one thing—but pride, that mattered more.

...

As the robbery faded into the past and the weather cleared, the gang began preparing to move camp. Their next destination was Valentine, at Horseshoe Overlook in the Heartlands.

Before departure, Dutch approached Davey and asked him to travel with Arthur and Hosea. Davey didn’t refuse.
Mac was assigned to ride with Micah, a move Dutch hoped would help ease the tension between them.

It was a clever idea—after all, at their core, the Callander brothers and Micah weren’t so different.
Only Davey had changed. Mac hadn’t.

Davey just smiled at Dutch’s plan, knowing Mac would still listen to him.

Sure enough, during the trip, a few sharp words were exchanged, and Mac ended up planting a solid punch right on Micah’s face.
Dutch had no choice but to move Micah to another wagon.

Arthur tried to cheer Davey up along the way.
“Davey, isn’t this great? We’ve left that damn snow behind and found a new place to start fresh.”

“I heard Valentine’s a real civilized town. Once we get there, we can easily sell those bonds. That’s tens of thousands of dollars, right, Hosea?”

Arthur didn’t really understand how valuable the bonds were, so he looked to Hosea for confirmation.
Earlier, Davey had estimated they were worth only a few thousand dollars, and Arthur had assumed he was mistaken.

Hosea laughed. “You’re right, Arthur. These bearer bonds are worth a fortune. Cornwall and several other companies issued them together. I’d say we could fetch at least fifty thousand dollars for them.”

Fifty thousand dollars was an enormous sum for the time.
In 1899, there were only about 4,500 millionaires across the entire United States. The federal government’s annual payment to the Pinkertons for law enforcement contracts was also just fifty thousand.

A well-dressed gentleman could outfit himself completely for under twenty dollars—a suit cost seven to sixteen dollars, a shirt one dollar, and a hat forty-eight cents.
For a dollar, you could buy ten neckties—enough to wear a different one every day.

Women’s blouses went for ten to twelve dollars, hats cost thirty-five cents, and shoes ran two to three dollars a pair.
Most women sewed their own clothes since it was cheaper than buying ready-made garments. Only for special occasions would they visit a shop for a dress.

That was how much fifty thousand dollars was worth back then—an unimaginable fortune.

Chapter Text

“Fifty thousand dollars—that’s a huge sum. But it also means we’ve crossed even more powerful men.”
“I’ve never seen that bond myself, Hosea. You have, haven’t you? Was it issued by just one company?”

Davey asked with a cold smile.

The bearer bonds had been jointly issued by the federal government and several private corporations. The ones in Cornwall’s possession had clearly changed hands multiple times.

At his words, Hosea immediately recalled the names of several companies printed on the bonds. Each one was a giant within the federal territory. His face darkened at once. They hadn’t just offended one magnate—they had offended several.

“Hosea, what’s going on?” Arthur turned and asked.

He only understood that the bonds were worth a lot of money. Beyond that, he had no idea what they truly represented.

Hosea hesitated to explain, so Davey spoke instead. “Arthur, simply put, those bonds are tied to several powerful men. By robbing that train, we’ve managed to offend all of them at once.”

Arthur still didn’t grasp the seriousness of it. “They won’t track it back to us,” he said. “They’ll just go after the O’Driscolls.”

Davey didn’t argue. He knew Arthur was trying to protect Dutch. Hosea, too, seemed to take comfort in the thought, placing his hopes on the O’Driscoll Gang taking the fall.

But the truth was, news of the train robbery had already hit the papers.
An enraged Cornwall had hired the Pinkerton Detective Agency, putting up a $20,000 contract to find the culprits.
With the backing of several magnates, scores of Pinkerton agents crossed from West Elizabeth into New Hanover, beginning their investigation and manhunt.

The O’Driscolls, framed for the crime, were the first to suffer. But since they weren’t the ones behind it, it was only a matter of time before suspicion fell on the Van der Linde Gang.

...

Even in this so-called real world, the wagon’s wheel broke along the way, and they encountered a local Native American tribe.
Hosea told Arthur about the hardships these people endured—their suffering and the oppression they faced.
Davey’s gaze flickered thoughtfully. In the game, this had only been a story event.

In reality, it took three full days before the convoy reached Horseshoe Overlook.

The day after setting up camp, Bill, Javier, Mac, and Charles couldn’t wait to ride out to Valentine—their motives were obvious enough.
Reverend Swanson headed south toward the train station in search of something.
With supplies running low, Dutch asked Arthur to take a wagon to Valentine and restock.

“Hey, Davey, how about coming along? Let’s see what civilized life looks like in Valentine.”

Arthur invited with a grin.

“Arthur, you guys go ahead. I’m going to scout the area—about the Pinkertons, you know. Mac and the others aren’t exactly reliable.”

Davey turned him down, having his own plans in mind.

Just then, Karen and Tilly came over, eager to visit Valentine as well.
Arthur kicked the dozing Uncle awake by the wagon and set off with the girls.

“Hey, Davey,” Dutch called out with a smile, “why don’t you take it easy for once—go enjoy yourself like the others.”

Davey nodded, mounted his horse, and rode off. But his path didn’t lead toward Valentine.
Instead, he headed northwest from Horseshoe Overlook—toward the burned-down town of Limpany.

‘Let’s see if that gold bar’s really there.’

As a veteran player of Red Dead Redemption, Davey had, like most others, replayed the game countless times before finally settling into Chapter Two for a slower pace.

In the game, Chapter Two offered the perfect start—you could find six gold bars worth a total of $3,000 in three different locations. The nearest one was hidden in the ruins of Limpany.

But this was reality now. There was no guarantee the gold still existed. It might’ve been found long ago by some cowboy or drifter. The odds of that were high.

So the very first thing Davey decided upon reaching Horseshoe Overlook was to check on the Limpany gold.

After losing his stash in Blackwater, all he had left was a few dozen dollars on him. And out here in the West, money was everything. Without it, you couldn’t do a thing.

It didn’t take long before he arrived at the charred remains of Limpany.

In the game, the town had only a few buildings. But here, in reality, it stretched across hundreds of houses.

‘Looks like this is going to take a while. Quite the job ahead of me.’

It made sense—if there had only been a handful of houses, someone would’ve taken the gold long ago.

He roughly remembered that the box containing the bar had been hidden inside a cabinet.

He searched from day till night, combing through dozens of houses until midnight before finally stopping to rest.
After a quick sleep, he resumed the next morning.

Maybe luck had finally smiled on him—around noon, he found the box.
It was well hidden, tucked inside a burned-out cabinet that you couldn’t spot without breaking it apart.

He pried open the iron container, and there it was—a single gleaming gold bar resting before him.

Chapter Text

With the gold bar in hand, Davey finally felt at ease.
The other two bars were much farther away, and reaching them by horseback would take too long. For now, it made more sense to head to Valentine, get some rest, and exchange the gold on the black market for cash.

As he rode, he couldn’t help but admire the beauty of the western landscape. Along the dusty road, he passed several wagons and cowboys on horseback.
The more refined carriages even had armed escorts riding alongside.

The West had yet to fully merge with Eastern civilization—murders, robberies, and arson were still on the rise everywhere.
With his unshaven beard and imposing build, Davey looked anything but approachable.
Some of the wagon guards instinctively placed a hand on their holsters when they spotted him, wary of a possible ambush.

Out here, a skilled gunslinger could easily take down several cowboys without needing heavy weapons.
There was no “Dead Eye” like in the game—
that ability was only a mechanic designed to let players experience what it felt like to be a top-tier gunman.

By the time dusk fell, Davey finally arrived at the town of Valentine.
The cowboys who had been riding the same road as him visibly relaxed; though they outnumbered him, they could feel the pressure he exuded—the quiet dominance of a seasoned gunslinger over lesser men.

In the game, a player could circle Valentine in just a few minutes.
But in reality, the town was home to thousands of residents, packed with wooden houses and bustling streets.
The only downside was the overpowering stench from the surrounding livestock yards.

Davey found a decent-looking inn and decided to get some rest.
A bath was long overdue as well.

“Take care of my horse.”
“Yes, sir.”

At a regular inn, one night’s stay cost about $1, with a bath running another 25 cents.
But the one Davey chose was Valentine’s most luxurious establishment.
Here, a night’s lodging cost $3, and a bath 50 cents.

It wasn’t a place ordinary folks could afford.
A three-dollar room was nearly two days’ wages for a laborer, and that didn’t even include the bath.

The room itself was quite elegant—clean and well-maintained. What pleased Davey most, though, was that it had a private flush toilet.
After all, what kind of civilized town didn’t have one?

Before long, an attendant knocked on the door to inform him that his bathwater was ready.
Bathing took place in a separate room—
a necessity in the West, where proper water systems hadn’t yet been built, making water an expensive commodity. Most people went several days without bathing.

“Sir, would you like some help? Only 50 cents.”

Davey had just undressed and stepped into the tub when he heard a knock, followed by a woman’s voice from outside.
In the game, the scrub service also cost 50 cents—a fair price.
But in reality, that was only the starting fee. There were “extra services” available, though they came with additional charges.
Not something you saw in the game—but this wasn’t a game anymore...

“Come in, ma’am,” Davey said calmly, though there was a trace of curiosity in his tone.

When the door opened, his interest vanished instantly. He didn’t even bother saying much afterward.
Still, he didn’t send her away. After days on the road, he was filthy enough to need a proper scrubbing.

Ignoring the woman’s subtle hints and advances, Davey let her wash him down thoroughly. When she was done, he asked the attendant to bring another bucket of hot water so he could rinse off again, and he casually handed her a 10-cent tip.

Tipping, at the time, was something only the wealthy did.
The custom had been imported from Europe—
wealthy Americans who traveled abroad brought it back as a way to show off their refinement and social standing.
Just a few years ago, there had even been a short-lived anti-tipping movement in the East, which, of course, ended in failure.

After helping Davey rinse off again, the woman was pleasantly surprised when he gave her a full dollar in tips.
Her “extra service” typically cost only 50 cents—25 cents if you bargained, sometimes even rolled into the standard fee.
It all depended on how generous the client was.

She and others like her worked across multiple inns, though cheaper establishments paid less for their services.

Before leaving, Davey casually asked about the black market’s location. Once he got the information, he decided to take care of business before turning in for the night.

The black market was hidden away in a small shack down a narrow alley—
a place no one would find without directions.

Davey covered the lower half of his face with a scarf before entering.
Not out of fear—just to avoid unnecessary attention.

“Oh, a fine gold bar,” the black market dealer said, eyes gleaming. “How much would you like to exchange for it, sir?”

Davey said nothing. He simply revealed the Colt resting at his hip.

“My apologies, sir—please forgive my rudeness,” the dealer stammered quickly. “At the current rate, that bar is worth five hundred dollars. Will that do?”

“That’ll do,” Davey replied evenly. “No hundreds or fifties. Exchange it all into twenties and tens.”

In the West, outside prosperous towns like Saint Denis and Blackwater, large bills were hard to spend and drew too much attention.
Smaller denominations were safer—and smarter.

...

(35 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

When it came to making quick money in the West, nothing beat the tobacco and liquor trade.
Tobacco was profitable, sure, but the costs were far too high for now. Moonshining, on the other hand, was clearly the best option.

Back in his previous life, when he played the game online, running a moonshine business had been his main source of income.
So naturally, his plan this time around was the same—to make his start through moonshining.

Of course, with only a few hundred dollars to his name, he didn’t have nearly enough capital yet. He still needed to retrieve the remaining gold bars from two other locations.
But for now, what he really needed was some rest.

...

The next morning, Davey decided to stop by the saloons—mostly to take a look around. The top priority was still getting his hands on the gold bars.

There were two saloons in Valentine.
The first was the old establishment, the Valentine Saloon.
The second was the newly opened Smithfield Saloon.

Ever since Smithfield opened its doors, business at the old saloon had steadily declined. Most folks preferred the modern atmosphere of the new place.

As Davey stepped out of his inn, intending to visit the old saloon first, he spotted something troubling in a nearby alley.
Tilly Jackson was pinned against a wall by a black man who looked like he was threatening her.

“Didn’t think I’d find you, did you, Tilly?”
“What you do has nothing to do with me anymore… Let me go! Let me go!”
“I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

Davey didn’t hesitate. He strode forward.
“Let her go.”

The moment he spoke, he revealed the Colt holstered at his waist.
The man froze. One glance at the gun was enough to make him hesitate.

“Hey, man, take it easy. No need for trouble.” He raised his hands slightly and stepped back, releasing Tilly.

Realizing Davey wasn’t someone to mess with, the man threw Tilly a cold glare.
“You’re making a big mistake, Tilly Jackson!”

“Get lost!” Tilly snapped.

The man gave Davey one last look, decided it wasn’t worth the fight, and quickly walked away.

“Thanks, Davey.”
“It’s fine, Tilly.”

Davey didn’t ask further. He knew exactly who that man was—one of the Foreman Brothers Gang.

Tilly Jackson had become an outlaw at just twelve years old. She’d joined the Foreman Brothers Gang early on but later killed Anthony Foreman’s cousin in self-defense and left the gang. After that, she joined the Van der Linde Gang.

“Hey, Davey!”

Arthur’s voice called from nearby. He’d been out looking for Tilly and Karen and had stumbled upon them by chance.

“Arthur, you’re on your own? Where’s Mac?”
“Davey, you know Mac—he drank half the saloon dry last night. He’s still sleeping it off. I’m looking for Karen. Have you seen her? Heard she went to the hotel to gather intel.”

“Figures,” Davey replied. “Mac’s always like that. I wasn’t staying nearby last night, so I haven’t heard anything about Karen.”

He already knew about Karen’s situation but didn’t say more.

Arthur went on toward the hotel to find her, while Davey headed straight for the Smithfield Saloon.

Inside, he spotted Mac passed out at a table, with Mary-Beth and Uncle sitting beside him, keeping watch.

“Hey, Davey,” Mary-Beth greeted with a smile when she noticed him.

“Uncle, Mary—thanks for watching over him. That fool never changes,” Davey said, walking up to the bar. He ordered three steaks, a glass of red wine, and a whiskey.

“Oh, Davey, thanks for the whiskey—but one glass? That’s hardly enough!” Uncle perked up immediately at the mention of it.

Whiskey went for fifty cents a glass in the saloon—well out of Uncle’s usual range. He normally drank the cheap stuff back at camp.

“Thanks, Davey,” Mary-Beth said softly. Red wine and steak were rare luxuries for her.

“Keep an eye on Mac for me,” Davey said between bites. “I’m gathering information on the Pinkertons—it might take me a little while.”

He was planning to take a train to Bacchus Station, where five more gold bars awaited him. This would be his first real fortune.

“Don’t worry, Davey,” Uncle said, thumping his chest. “We’ll take care of him—make sure he gets back to camp safe.”

“But we’ll have to wait for Arthur to return,” he added with a grin. “You know neither Mary nor I can haul this lump on our own.”

“Still,” Uncle said with a sheepish smile, “one glass of whiskey ain’t enough for me.”

Uncle didn’t take part in gang jobs, so he had no steady income. He lived off camp rations and cheap liquor. High-proof drinks like whiskey or gin—costing at least two dollars a bottle—were far beyond what he could afford.

Mary-Beth, meanwhile, ate her steak with quiet grace, occasionally sipping her wine. Her elegant posture and soft manners made her look more like a lady of high society than a gang member—though that was, of course, part of her disguise.

Davey chuckled and pulled out a dollar, ordering two more whiskeys for Uncle.

“Oh, generous Davey!” Uncle grinned ear to ear. “Bless you, boy.”

Davey glanced at the still-sleeping Mac. It was obvious this one wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon.

Chapter Text

“I booked a room at the Helton Inn. Maybe you all can rest there for a bit—take a bath or something.”
“Of course, I’ll put it on my tab.”

Mary-Beth, Karen, Molly, Arthur, Uncle, and Mac all carried the same unpleasant smell. It had been far too long since any of them had taken a proper bath. In the West, bathing itself was a kind of luxury.

Aside from Dutch and Micah, Davey actually liked most of the others and didn’t mind lending a small hand.

Hearing Davey’s offer, Mary-Beth’s eyes lit up. “Thank you, Davey.”

Uncle let out a low whistle. “Oh, Davey, the Helton Inn? I hear it’s three dollars a night!”

Davey chuckled. “Ran into a generous fellow on the road who was kind enough to share a bit of his good fortune.”

For an outlaw gang, robbery was nothing unusual, so Davey simply attributed his newfound generosity to his “luck” on the road.

“You really are one lucky man, Davey—running into someone with money to spare,” Uncle laughed. “They say the service at the Helton Inn is top-notch.”

Davey caught Uncle’s tone and smiled. “Maybe you should see for yourself. Arthur and Mac are welcome too.”

Uncle’s face lit up instantly. “Davey, thank you! You’re a true brother.”

Just then, Arthur burst in with Karen and Molly. Karen’s face was bruised.

“Davey, Uncle—we need to get out of here, now,” Arthur said urgently.

He’d gotten into a fight while defending Karen, and trouble was already on their heels.

Uncle groaned in frustration. He’d just been looking forward to the Helton Inn—he’d heard they had some real high-class company there. Mary-Beth looked disappointed too; she’d been hoping for that long-overdue bath.

“What happened, Arthur? Maybe we don’t have to rush. Davey’s got a room at the Helton Inn—we should clean up first,” Uncle said.

Arthur quickly explained, “I got into some trouble. The local sheriff might be after me.”

Uncle scowled. “Damn it, Arthur! Can’t you keep yourself out of trouble for once?”

At the mention of the sheriff, Uncle immediately realized how serious things were. They were all wanted men. Even if bounties didn’t carry over between states, their faces were still worth plenty. Once recognized, getting out of town would be nearly impossible.

Just then, a voice rang out from outside. “That’s him! He’s the one who hit me!”

Outside the saloon, Valentine’s sheriff had already surrounded the place with several deputies.

“Listen up inside!” a voice called out. “I’m Sheriff Curtis Malloy of Valentine. You’ve been accused of assault, and I need you to come with me for questioning.”

Sheriff Malloy was cautious—criminals out West almost always carried guns, and it didn’t take much for a gunfight to break out.

Arthur’s hand was already resting on his holster.

“Easy, Arthur,” Davey said, standing up. “There’s no need for this. Maybe we can talk it out with Sheriff Malloy.”

He didn’t want a shootout. In this world, being wanted wasn’t something you could just sleep off like in a game—it would stick with you.

“Alright, Davey. I’ll follow your lead,” Arthur said. “When I was helping Karen, I roughed that guy up a bit.”

Davey walked over, raised his hands alongside Arthur, and the two stepped out of the saloon.

Seeing them comply, Sheriff Malloy let out a small sigh of relief—at least there wouldn’t be bloodshed today.

Arthur, Davey, Karen, and the man Arthur had beaten were all taken to the sheriff’s office.

Unlike the one in the game, this station was much larger, with at least twenty or thirty officers. Valentine might have been a ranching town of only a few thousand, but it was prosperous enough to support a sizable law force.

“This gentleman says you assaulted him. Is that true? I’d like to hear your explanation,” Sheriff Malloy asked from behind his desk.

Arthur was about to speak, but Davey stepped forward first.

“Sheriff Malloy, maybe you should take a look at this young lady here. Notice the bruises on her face? Clearly, our friend stepped in because she was being harassed.”

“That’s self-defense, wouldn’t you agree?”

As he spoke, Davey discreetly slipped a twenty-dollar bill between the pages of a book on the sheriff’s desk, his body blocking the view of everyone else. Sheriff Malloy’s eyes flickered.

Twenty dollars was no small amount.

“Ahem… this gentleman—”

“Sheriff, my name’s Davey,” he interrupted smoothly.

“Oh, Mr. Davey, I see your point. It seems you and your friend were treated unfairly.”

Sheriff Malloy’s tone softened. He turned to the complainant. “Sir, perhaps you’d like to explain why you struck this lovely lady in the first place?”

The man stammered, unsure what to say. He couldn’t admit it had been over solicitation—prostitution was illegal across most of the states, and that would be a far worse charge than assault.

Davey stepped forward, wrapping an arm around the man’s shoulder with a friendly grin. “Sheriff Malloy, maybe this was all just a misunderstanding. Isn’t that right, sir?”

Seeing the situation turn against him, the man quickly nodded. “Yes… yes, it’s just a misunderstanding.”

Chapter Text

In the US, there was no problem money couldn’t solve. And if it couldn’t—well, that only meant you didn’t have enough of it.

With both sides having settled things, Sheriff Malloy saw no reason to interfere further. Once the matter was closed, he prepared to leave the station.

Arthur hadn’t noticed Davey slipping the bribe into the sheriff’s book. He genuinely believed Malloy was a good, fair man—honest and upright. Thankfully, he hadn’t drawn his gun back at the saloon.

Davey glanced at the wanted posters hanging on the wall and smiled. “Sheriff Malloy, are these your current bounty targets?”

Sheriff Malloy, who’d developed a good impression of Davey, asked, “Are you a bounty hunter?”

Davey shrugged. “Sometimes, I suppose. You know how it is—everyone runs short on cash now and then.”

Malloy shot a glance at his deputy.

The deputy stepped forward and explained, “That man’s a heartless quack. He’s been selling fake miracle tonics that’ve poisoned folks all over these parts—mostly around here and Annesburg.”

“He’s killed more people than Landon Ricketts ever did, and not with a single bullet. He gets some kind of sick thrill out of it.”

The sheriff added, “People at the saloon said they spotted him in the nearby canyon, heading north.”

“Davey, think you can bring him in? There’s a nice bounty on his head.”

“But you’ll need to bring him back alive. I want the widows he’s left behind to get their justice before he swings.”

“Of course. Whatever means you use, I won’t ask questions—just make sure you deliver.”

Davey nodded. “I’ll give it a shot. But for now, we should get going. Thank you, Sheriff Malloy.”

...

After leaving the station, the group headed back toward the saloon.

Karen let out a long breath of relief, still surprised at how smoothly everything had gone. “That sheriff really is such a fair, decent man,” she murmured.

Arthur looked uneasy, as if he wanted to speak but hesitated.

“Arthur,” Davey said, catching the look, “if you’ve got something to say, just spit it out.”

Arthur hesitated, then spoke. “That wanted poster, Davey... You know I’m short on money right now. If I go after that bounty—of course, I’ll split it with you.”

Arthur clearly had his eye on the bounty, but since Davey had brought it up first, he couldn’t just compete with one of his own. Other gangs might fight over rewards, but in the Van der Linde Gang, Arthur still believed everyone was family.

Davey, however, had no intention of handing the counterfeit medicine peddler over to the law. That man—Benedict Allbright—was far too valuable to waste.

To get his moonshine business running, Davey needed a large supply of drinking-grade alcohol. Using industrial alcohol would kill people—and taste awful. Medical alcohol, on the other hand, was basically the same as food-grade. If Benedict could brew fake medicine, then he clearly had access to the right materials.

The nearby clinics also stored plenty of medical alcohol, but those were under the control of the O’Driscoll Gang, who happened to be working with the same deputy they’d just met.

The real O’Driscoll Gang wasn’t the kind of weak, expendable group you could mow down like in a game. They’d been clashing with the Van der Linde Gang for years—and they were formidable.

Valentine was O’Driscoll territory, and their operations were even larger than the Van der Lindes’. If Davey wanted to drive them out, he’d need a lot more information first.

“Arthur,” Davey said, “you can go after that fake medicine dealer—but don’t turn him in to the law. I’ve got a use for him.”

“The bounty’s fifty dollars. I’ll pay it myself. You won’t be working for nothing.”

Davey pulled fifty dollars from his pocket and pressed it into Arthur’s hand.

“Davey... this—” Arthur looked taken aback.

“Arthur,” Davey continued, “northwest of camp, there’s a burned-down town called Limpany. Once you’ve got him, take him there and hold him for me.”

Arthur nodded. “Alright, Davey.” He couldn’t refuse a brother’s request—especially not one that came with fifty bucks attached.

“Arthur,” Davey said with a grin, “why don’t you head to the Helton Inn with Uncle and the others—oh, and Karen too. I booked a room for you all to wash up. It’s on my tab.”

Karen brightened instantly. “Oh, a bath—what a beautiful word! Thank you, Davey.”

...

Back at the saloon, Karen recounted everything that had happened at the sheriff’s office, still insisting that Sheriff Malloy was an honest and upright man.

By then, Mac had finally woken up. When he heard that Davey had robbed a rich man and rented rooms at the Helton Inn, he loudly demanded to go take a bath himself.

Uncle shot Davey a surprised look. He knew the business at the sheriff’s station hadn’t been as simple as it seemed—there were clearly things Davey hadn’t said. But his attention quickly shifted at the mention of baths.

Soon after, the group arrived at the Helton Inn. Davey left a twenty-dollar deposit with the clerk, making sure everyone’s bills would be charged to his name.

Now, it was time to retrieve the other five gold bars.

Chapter Text

Davey rode his horse out of the inn, heading first to the stables to swap out his saddle bags for a top-tier set. Then he made his way to the barber for a proper grooming, getting his hair and beard neatly trimmed.

The transformation was striking. His once scruffy, rough-around-the-edges look was gone, replaced by a clean, refined image. With his natural blond hair, Davey had always been a handsome man. In truth, whether it was Arthur, Dutch, Hosea, or the Callander brothers, each was quite striking in his own right.

At camp, Hosea kept a photograph of himself, Dutch, and Arthur—a trio whose looks could have graced a portrait in a city gallery. Even though Davey only appeared briefly in the game, his sharp profile alone hinted at a natural charm.

Leaving the barbershop, Davey continued to the tailor.

While Valentine lacked barbers and tailors in the game, the real-world version of this prosperous ranching town certainly had them. Inside the shop, Davey spent twenty-two dollars on a gentleman’s suit—something only the upper class would wear.

Naturally, no gentleman was complete without a walking stick.

It was a custom that had originated among European nobles and had since become fashionable among the wealthy elite of the Union. The stick wasn’t cheap—five dollars for a carved wooden one without ivory or gemstone inlays. He also purchased a finely crafted calfskin briefcase for three dollars.

As the saying goes, a man is judged by his clothes, a horse by its saddle. Looks are three parts nature and seven parts presentation.

Now, Davey looked every inch a man of success.

The original Davey had never been to school, but his past self—Logan Song—had actually graduated from college. Even if it was a second-rate institution, by the standards of the late nineteenth century, that still made him an intellectual.

The rough aura of an outlaw was gone. What remained was the refined air of an educated man.

Even his own brother, Mac Callander, would probably have doubted his eyes upon seeing him now.

...

Davey then rode to the Valentine Post Office and Train Station.

There, he paid off the bounties placed on both himself and the counterfeit medicine peddler, Benedict Allbright.

Paying a bounty stopped bounty hunters from pursuing the target—a quirk of Western justice born from its era.

With limited federal law enforcement and differing state laws across the Union, bounty hunting had become a distinct profession. Anyone could be a bounty hunter, but they didn’t serve just anyone.

Only the Bounty Hunters’ Guild could issue official targets, and they typically worked for the federal government.

In the West, everything had a price. If you paid the Guild enough, they’d cancel a bounty—what people called a ransom—usually double the original reward.

Davey’s bounty, like Allbright’s, stood at fifty dollars—a steep sum. Most wanted posters offered only a few dollars, maybe a dozen, sometimes mere cents.

Of course, that only applied to Guild bounties. Private contracts paid much more.

Take Cornwall, for example—he’d paid the Pinkertons twenty thousand dollars for a job, with Dutch Van der Linde valued at five thousand, Arthur at two thousand, and each of the Callander brothers at three thousand.

In the game’s storyline, Arthur’s bounty later rises to five thousand because the Callander brothers are dead. But in this version, since the brothers still lived, their names topped the list instead.

Private contracts like these didn’t go through the Guild. Even if a bounty hunter captured Davey, the Guild wouldn’t pay a cent; instead, he’d be handed to the Pinkerton Detective Agency for the reward.

“Sir, I’d like a first-class ticket to Bacchus Station—and a horse ticket as well.”

Davey spoke with a calm, polite smile. His tailored suit, elegant walking stick, top hat, and leather briefcase—all paired with his intellectual poise—earned him instant respect from the station staff.

“Good day, sir,” the clerk said warmly. “That will be thirty-five dollars. We’ll see that your horse is properly attended to.”

In the game, trains were little more than a few crude cars, with horses magically keeping pace beside them. But in the real West, luxury carriages for the wealthy were common, along with livestock cars for horses. Naturally, first-class tickets cost more than twice as much as standard fares.

Davey handed over thirty-five dollars, then added a one-dollar coin.

“Thank you for your generosity, sir,” the attendant said with renewed enthusiasm. “The train departs in thirty minutes. Please, have a seat by the tables—we’ll bring you complimentary snacks and juice.”

The staff rarely offered such perks unprompted; they were reserved for first-class passengers, but tips had a way of opening doors.

For Davey, generosity came easily—and a little goodwill never hurt in the West.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

“Why do you get a snack and juice while I have nothing?”
“We clearly bought the same ticket.”

Davey was waiting for the train when a woman’s voice spoke beside him.

She was a blonde girl, probably just past twenty. Instead of the usual courtly gown most women wore, she was dressed in a more modern style—denim jacket and jeans.

Denim clothing had its roots in the 1849 California Gold Rush. Levi Strauss, a Jewish immigrant, was credited as the inventor of jeans. Known for their durability, they had become a staple of fashion across the West.

Her jeans, however, were unlike ordinary ones—dyed a deep blue and cut to better fit a woman’s figure.

“Miss, perhaps you should ask the staff about that instead of taking it out on me,” Davey said evenly.

Golden curls framed her face, her skin pale as cream, and her eyes the color of the clear western sky. She fit perfectly within Davey’s tastes.

She looked to be in her early twenties, though perhaps a bit younger. Girls in the Union tended to mature fast.

“You’re being presumptuous. I’m not a ‘lady.’ My name’s Catherine Montoya—you may call me Miss Catherine.”

Catherine had a friendly, confident air—perhaps it was Davey’s refined manner and gentlemanly dress that made her feel comfortable approaching him. Most travelers at the station weren’t from her social class, and among them, only Davey seemed worth her attention. Bored, she had probably found an excuse to strike up a conversation.

Even in denim, the cut and quality of her outfit clearly marked her as someone from a well-off family.

“Davey Callander,” he replied with a polite smile. “You may call me Mr. Callander. Beautiful Miss Catherine, you must be from one of the East’s more civilized cities. It’s an honor to meet you here.”

He found her intriguing—and chatting would certainly help pass the time.

In the Union, only the eldest sons and daughters of a family were addressed by surname; younger siblings were called by their given names. As the eldest of the Callander brothers, Davey was properly known as Mr. Callander.

“Mr. Callander, how did you know I was from the East? Was it my accent?” Catherine asked as she sat gracefully across from him.

“Such modern, stylish tailoring isn’t something a western seamstress could produce. Only designers in civilized cities like New York or Washington City could create such work.”

He gestured for a station attendant to bring another plate of pastries and juice, leaving a dollar tip. Catherine smiled, clearly delighted by his gentlemanly manners.

“I’m curious,” Davey continued, “was it the scenery of the West that brought the lovely Miss Catherine here?”

Catherine laughed lightly. “I’m a student at Union University, majoring in journalism. I came West to gather material for my graduation thesis. I’ve traveled all across the East, but nothing there inspired me to write—so I came here instead.”

Davey’s eyes brightened at the mention of Union University. That was no ordinary school—it had been founded by the President who established the Union itself, inaugurated on November 4, 1861, only thirty-eight years earlier. Those who attended came from families of wealth or influence.

“Miss Catherine,” he said gently, “a young and beautiful woman like you could find herself in trouble out here in the wild West. Perhaps you’d be safer returning East.”

Catherine smiled. “I’m only taking the train to enjoy the scenery. I won’t stray from the station grounds.” Then, with a teasing glint in her eye, she added, “Besides, with a gentleman like Mr. Callander nearby, I think I’ll be perfectly safe. You’ll protect me, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Davey replied with a warm smile. “It would be my honor, beautiful Miss Catherine.”

Time slipped away as they talked. Thirty minutes passed in what felt like moments.

When the train was ready to board, Davey rose and gave a small, graceful bow. With his left hand behind his back, he extended his right hand, palm up, toward her—a gesture from the courts of old Europe, known as the Princess’s Hand Presentation, reserved for royal ladies.

The meaning was clear enough: In my eyes, you are like a princess.

Catherine understood perfectly. Tilting her delicate, pale neck, she placed her hand in his and rose with elegance.

Just then, a station attendant hurried over, courteously offering to carry their luggage.

As they walked, Catherine naturally slipped her arm through Davey’s. Together they looked like a pair of newlywed nobles.

Their closeness, in that moment, deepened.

“Thank you, sir,” the attendant said.

“My pleasure,” Davey replied with polite modesty.

He handed over another dollar as a tip, earning a grateful bow from the worker.

Catherine’s eyes lingered on him with new admiration. Most nobles she’d met were arrogant and self-important—but Davey’s calm, courteous grace set him apart.

Chapter Text

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, lovely Miss Catherine, but all good things must come to an end. I believe it’s time for me to take my leave.”

As the train pulled into Bacchus Station, Davey stood, tipped his hat, and addressed Catherine.
The trip from Valentine Station to Bacchus Station wasn’t far—just a three-hour train ride.
During that time, Davey and Catherine had grown closer.

As a soul from a later era, Davey’s knowledge far exceeded that of most people in this time.
From scenic landmarks and local customs to fashion, politics, and visions of the future—these were all things Catherine had never encountered before.
Davey’s insight left a lasting impression on her heart. She had never met a man so well-informed, polite, and refined.

“I’m also very glad to have met you, Mr. Callander. Will we see each other again?” Catherine’s heart was filled with reluctance. She truly wanted to follow Davey off the train, but her sense of propriety held her back.

“I’m sure we will, Miss Catherine. I won’t forget the wonderful time I’ve spent with you,” Davey said with a warm smile.

“Will you write to me?” she asked, unwilling to let their connection fade. Out here in the vast West, who knew when they might cross paths again?

“If Miss Catherine would be so kind as to give me your address,” Davey replied, lifting his suitcase.

“Henry Manor, Saint Denis, Lemoyne. I’ll look forward to your letter, Mr. Callander,” Catherine said, her eyes full of anticipation.

Hearing that, Davey paused, setting aside the walking stick he had been about to pick up. He turned toward her, took a step closer, and gently lifted her left hand, pressing a courteous kiss upon it.

A faint blush colored Catherine’s cheeks.

“I’ll remember this, always. It’s been an unforgettable encounter, Miss Catherine Montoya. I look forward to the day we meet again.”

After the kiss, Davey picked up his walking stick, gave her one last smile, and stepped out of the carriage.
Catherine leaned against the window, watching him walk toward the back of the train until he disappeared from sight.

Woo—woo!

The whistle sounded. Bacchus Station was only a transfer stop, so the train wouldn’t stay long.
As it began to move, Catherine kept looking out the window, searching for Davey’s figure—but he was nowhere to be seen.

Just as disappointment began to weigh on her heart, a familiar figure appeared outside the window—Davey, on horseback.
Her eyes lit up with joy.

Davey waved at her as he rode alongside the train for a while before gradually fading into the distance.
His departing figure lingered in Catherine’s sapphire-blue eyes…

The remaining two gold bars were both near Bacchus Station, so it wouldn’t take long to retrieve them.
Since the train was still moving, Davey decided to head for the statue first to collect the three gold bars hidden there.

The statue’s location hadn’t been clearly marked on the game map from his past life, but players who had finished the game knew it was near the mysterious mountaintop cabin—where Arthur was buried.

Though the landscape had changed somewhat in this world, luck was on Davey’s side. It didn’t take him long to find the narrow cave.
Inside, surrounded by stone figures, he activated a hidden mechanism and successfully obtained three gold bars.

After all his recent expenses, the $500 he’d exchanged earlier had dwindled to just over $200.
The biggest cost had been the $200 bounty to clear the charges for the fake medicine peddler, Benedict Allbright.
Now, he had finally earned back what he’d lost.

Leaving the cave, only the wrecked train carriage remained on his list.
It was easy to find—under the railway bridge near Cotorra Springs. Following the tracks led straight to it.
Though a bit of a hassle, he managed to secure the last two gold bars without issue.

It was time to return to Valentine.
After exchanging all the gold bars for cash, he finally had his first real fortune in hand.

This train ride, however, lacked the charm of his encounter with Catherine.
Night had fallen, and the luxurious carriage was quiet—Davey was its only passenger.
As the train rattled on, he couldn’t help but think back to the time he’d spent with her.

By the time he arrived in Valentine, it was already nine o’clock.
Davey headed straight to the Helton Inn. Arthur and Micah had already returned to camp.

He enjoyed a long, luxurious bath, washing away the dirt of the road.
Davey had a habit of bathing daily—after all, his soul came from a later, more civilized era where going a day unwashed felt unbearable.
Back in Colter Village, that hadn’t been possible, but now that it was, he intended to treat himself properly.

That evening, he made a trip to the black market and successfully exchanged all his gold bars for cash—this time, in large denominations.
With money finally in hand, the moonshine operation could begin.
But before that, he needed to make one more trip back to camp.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

After a good night’s rest, Davey woke up feeling refreshed.
He left his gentleman’s suit at the inn and changed into the freshly washed cowboy outfit that the staff had prepared.
Arthur and the others had spent $8 earlier, plus another $3 for last night’s stay, leaving only $9 from their original $20.
This time, Davey deposited $30 with the innkeeper, instructing them to hold his room for him.

Mounting his horse, he prepared to head back to camp.

“Hello, sir! Please, stop for a moment.”
A voice called out. Davey turned on horseback and saw Mr. Downes—the man who had fallen ill with tuberculosis after Arthur went to collect debts from him.
Tuberculosis spread mainly through droplets. Though not highly contagious, Davey had no intention of getting close to him.
This was the real world—if he caught it, that would be the end of him.
He tossed a $10 bill his way and turned to leave.

Horseshoe Overlook.

“Hey, Davey.”
“Hey, Lenny.”
It was Lenny greeting him—he usually handled lookout duty.

When Davey rode into camp, Arthur and Hosea were packing their things, preparing to head out.
“Davey, Hosea found a legendary animal—a giant bear. You interested in coming along for the hunt?” Arthur asked with a grin.

Davey’s expression darkened. “Sorry, I’m not in the mood for hunting right now.”
Seeing his mood, Hosea frowned slightly. “Davey, did you find something out?”
Everyone knew that Davey had left earlier under the pretense of gathering intelligence.

“Yes, Hosea. And it’s very bad news.”

Davey’s tone drew everyone’s attention. Mac, Bill, Javier, and Dutch all walked over.
Micah edged closer cautiously, lingering on the outskirts of the group.

“Davey, what did you find?” Dutch asked directly, noting the grim look on his face.

Davey fixed Dutch with a hard stare, his tone sharp and accusatory. “Dutch, Dutch... I told you we shouldn’t have robbed that train. Now look what’s happened.”
“Cornwall has paid twenty thousand dollars to the Pinkerton Detective Agency. They’ve figured it out—it wasn’t the O’Driscolls who robbed the train. It was us.”
“Dutch, there’s now a private bounty of five thousand dollars on your head. Arthur, you’ve got two thousand. Micah and I each have three thousand.”
He gave a bitter chuckle. “Didn’t think we’d become so valuable. I’m half tempted to turn myself in.”

No one laughed. The situation was far too serious. The Pinkertons’ involvement had put the gang in a dangerous position.

Davey went on, “Dutch, who knows how many Pinkertons are already in New Hanover? It’s only a matter of time before they find us.”
“Oh, Hosea, have you managed to sell those bonds yet?”

Hosea hesitated. “Davey, it’s too risky right now. Those bonds are worth a lot. We have to be careful about who we approach.”

Davey’s voice turned cold. “So, for now, those bonds might as well be worthless paper, right?”

Arthur stepped in quickly. “Davey, take it easy. It’s not that bad yet. We just need to lay low for a while. Sooner or later, we’ll find a way to sell those bonds.”

Davey ignored him and turned his eyes back to Dutch.

Dutch exhaled slowly. He knew it was his turn to speak.
“Listen, Davey, don’t get worked up. The Pinkertons won’t find us that fast.”
“Like Arthur said, we’ll stay quiet for a while. Hosea will find buyers soon enough.”
“I have a plan. Once we sell those bonds, we’ll leave this place and head south—to Tahiti. We can buy land there, grow mangoes, start fresh.”
“For now, we just need to stay calm and keep a low profile.”

Dutch still spoke with his usual confidence and charm, but ever since the argument back in Colter Village, his authority in the gang had begun to wane.
And now, the news Davey brought only confirmed what some had already feared—that the train robbery had been a mistake.
With the Pinkertons having traced the crime directly back to the Van der Linde Gang, the weight of their situation finally sank in.

Everyone looked uneasy.
Abigail clutched little Jack tightly, her mind filled with visions of gallows and nooses.
And those bonds—if they couldn’t be sold, they were nothing more than useless scraps of paper.
Aside from a few so-called luxury goods taken from Cornwall’s train, the robbery had brought the gang no real gain.

The reality was staring them in the face. No matter how eloquently Dutch spoke, he couldn’t dispel the heavy cloud hanging over the camp.

Davey didn’t say any more. He’d said enough for now.
Pushing it further would only spark a full-blown confrontation.

“Girls! What are you doing? Get to work!” Susan’s voice cut through the tension.

The group slowly began to disperse.
Arthur followed Hosea out to hunt the legendary beast.

Chapter Text

“Davey, my brother, why’d you give Arthur fifty dollars? That’s the kind of job I should’ve handled.”
“It was just catching some fake medicine peddler. Not worth that much.”

Mac Callander pulled Davey aside, clearly displeased.
He didn’t care much about the Pinkerton news Davey had brought earlier—what really bothered him was the fifty dollars.

Davey snorted. “If I’d left it to you, what were you doing when I told you to gather intel? You were drinking yourself stupid at the saloon, weren’t you? Spent all your money, right?”
Faced with Davey’s scolding, Mac looked embarrassed. He knew he hadn’t done his job properly.

“Where’s that fake medicine seller now?” Davey asked, sounding impatient.
Mac quickly replied, “Just like you ordered—Arthur caught him and locked him up in that burned-out town, Limpany.”

Davey nodded. “You’ll watch over him for now. Don’t let him starve, and don’t let him escape. I still need him.”
Mac nodded earnestly. “Don’t worry, Davey. I’ll keep an eye on him, but…”

As twins who’d grown up together, Davey knew exactly what that “but” meant.
Without another word, he pulled out a wad of bills—over a hundred dollars—and stuffed them into Mac’s pocket.
Mac’s grin spread instantly. He’d known his brother must’ve made a good haul from his recent jobs.

By gang rules, half of anything earned from robberies was supposed to go to the camp.
But Davey hadn’t made any donations lately.
In truth, most of the gang knew he’d been robbing wealthy travelers.

Just a couple of days ago, when Arthur and Uncle came back from buying supplies, they’d bragged about staying at a fancy hotel and taking a luxurious bath—all charged to Davey’s tab.
Dutch hadn’t called Davey out on it. He could tell Davey was still bitter about the failed train robbery, and pushing him now over donations would only lead to conflict.
The Callander brothers weren’t people you wanted to pick a fight with.

Dutch knew he needed to keep the gang’s heavy hitters on his side, not drive them away.

It was around then that Leopold Strauss approached Davey.
“Davey, are you busy these days? I could use your help,” Strauss said, smiling faintly.
“You know how it is—some folks just never pay back what they owe.”

Strauss had been running his loan business for a long time—it was one of the gang’s key sources of income.
The money gang members donated to the camp was lent out by Strauss, making more money through interest.

In the original timeline, Arthur only started collecting debts after the gang moved to Horseshoe Overlook.
Before that, it was the Callander brothers who handled those jobs.
It was only after their deaths that Strauss turned to Arthur.

But now that the Callander brothers were still alive, the work naturally fell to them again—one of their steady sources of income.
Collectors earned a small commission for each job completed.

“No problem, Strauss. Just give me the list and the details—I’ll take care of it,” Davey said casually.
“Excellent, Davey. Working with you has always been a pleasure,” Strauss replied, handing him a piece of paper with the names and information neatly written.

“One’s named Chick Matthews—works at Guthrie Farm, probably just a hand there.”
“Then there’s Mr. Wróbel, a small landowner over in Painted Sky. His ranch hasn’t been doing well.”
“And a woman named Lilly Millet, a ranch maid over at Emerald Ranch.”

Davey took the note and nodded.
This was also why he hadn’t told Arthur about Thomas Downes.
Because of Davey’s involvement, Arthur wouldn’t be handling any of the debt collection work—and so, he’d never come into contact with Downes or his tuberculosis.
In a way, the moment the Callander brothers survived, the gears of fate had already begun to shift.

To launch his moonshine operation, Davey needed a few key components:
a distiller, medical-grade alcohol, and raw materials like cornmeal and malt.
He already had a lead on the medical alcohol—from the fake medicine dealer locked up in Limpany.
He’d also chosen someone for the role of distiller.

But the raw materials would require the help of a rancher.
Running a moonshine business meant more than just brewing—it meant dodging rival bootleggers and federal agents.

To stay safe, Davey would need to purchase supplies quietly and set up a secure distilling location.
No decent rancher would risk cooperating with him in secret.
So his best bet was to find someone struggling—someone desperate enough to take the offer.

And there was a perfect candidate: Wróbel, the struggling ranch owner over in Painted Sky.

People who borrowed from Leopold Strauss were usually at the end of their rope, so Davey was confident he could pull Wróbel into the moonshine business.
Wróbel actually had the means to repay Strauss—that wasn’t the issue.
His real problem was the debt he owed the bank, and that was what had him trapped.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

The next day.

“Time to get to work, Mac. Saddle up and come with me.”

Davey called to Mac — it was time to collect debts. Dutch was pleased Davey had sent Mac out; even if Davey hadn’t turned in his share, doing work for the gang still counted as contribution.

Mac was roused from a deep sleep, reluctant but hauling himself up to prepare.

“John, you coming?”

After a moment’s thought, Davey walked over to John’s tent and called.

John looked puzzled; Abigail’s face wore worry.

“Abigail, you can’t keep John holed up in camp forever. He won’t earn a thing that way. Debt collecting’s a legitimate business — there’s no real danger,” Davey said, addressing Abigail. He knew John always listened to her.

“Thank you, Davey.” Abigail understood at once — this was Davey giving John an opportunity. With her approval, John couldn’t refuse.

Davey had his own reasons for bringing John. The moonshine operation was about to start, and relying on Mac alone wouldn’t be enough to protect the business. He couldn’t be the one to personally fight every rival gang forever. Even now, most gangs wouldn’t stand against the Callander brothers, but expanding the moonshine trade required more hands.

John hadn’t fully come into his own yet; in the Van der Linde Gang he was second-tier. His marksmanship wasn’t on Micah’s level, but he was better than Bill and Javier — a useful helper.

...

The three mounted up and soon left Horseshoe Overlook. They didn’t head straight for Painted Sky; first they rode to Limpany.

John wondered quietly why they were going there, but he said nothing.

Led by Mac, they arrived at a burned-out cabin. There was a cellar below — the fake medicine peddler Benedict Allbright was being held there.

They opened the cellar door; a dim light glowed from below. A kerosene lamp had been lit.

Inside, Benedict Allbright was gagged and tied to a post on the wall.

“Mac, untie him. How can you treat a gentleman so rudely?” Davey instructed.

Once Benedict was freed, he demanded, “Who are you people? Why did you kidnap me? I’ve no money — every cent’s gone. What do you want from me?”

After two days of confinement in that cellar, Benedict’s nerves were frayed.

Bang!

Davey drew his Colt and fired a shot into the dirt at Benedict’s feet.

“Perhaps you need to calm down, Mr. Benedict.”

The Colt’s threat snapped Benedict to attention. He didn’t doubt that if he kept shouting, the next bullet would be for his forehead. This was a pack of ruthless outlaws; if they killed him here, no one would ever know.

“What do you want, sir?” Benedict asked, voice trembling.

Davey replied evenly, “My name is Davey Callander. You may call me Mr. Callander. I want to work with you, Mr. Benedict.”

Benedict swallowed hard. “Mr. Callander, I don’t know how I could help. I only make counterfeit medicines — they don’t actually cure anything.”

Davey shook his head. “No, I don’t want fake medicine. I want moonshine. I want you to work for me — to distill liquor.”

“If you can make fake medicine, Mr. Benedict, brewing moonshine shouldn’t be beyond you,” Davey said.

Benedict hesitated. “Esteemed Mr. Callander, you know I only make fake medicine. As for moonshine… I—”

“Enough.” Davey waved him off. “Mr. Benedict, perhaps my intelligence was wrong. I thought brewing moonshine would be simple for you. There’s nothing more to discuss.”

Benedict hadn’t expected Davey to be so curt. Trembling, he asked, “Then, esteemed Mr. Callander, may I go now?”

Davey’s tone turned cold. “Go? Mr. Benedict, are you joking?”

“You know my secret now. For me, only the dead keep secrets.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll make it quick. You won’t suffer. Then this cellar will be set aflame — everything burned clean.”

“Alright, Mr. Benedict, any last words? If not, this ends now.”

Davey drew his Colt slowly from its holster, clearly preparing to put a bullet through Benedict’s head.

Chapter Text

“No, Mr. Callander, you can’t do this!” Benedict cried out in terror.

Davey didn’t answer. He slowly raised his Colt and leveled it at Benedict’s head.

“No — please! I can work for you. I’ll brew moonshine. I will — it’s not hard for me, sir!” Benedict shouted, seeing Davey’s finger already on the trigger.

“Oh, you deceived me, Mr. Benedict. So you lied to me, did you?” Davey said, his voice cold. “I hate being deceived.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Callander, it’s my fault. I’ll never lie to you again. Please spare me — I… I’ll work for you properly!”

Faced with Benedict’s pleas, Davey slowly lowered the Colt. Just as Benedict let out a shuddering breath, Davey’s cold voice cut in: “Those who deceive me must pay. Mac, break his left leg.”

Mac chuckled, snatched a wooden club from the ground, and brought it down hard on Benedict’s calf.

Benedict screamed in agony — his left shin snapped.

Davey had no patience for quack peddlers. Given any chance, Benedict would have run; breaking a leg would keep him honest. Besides, as the deputy from Valentine had said, men like him had killed who knew how many people — shooting them wouldn’t be excessive.

“John, take him. We’re going to Painted Sky.”

A broken leg wouldn’t kill him. They wanted Benedict to feel the pain now so he wouldn’t think of running later. Mac and John hauled Benedict out of the cellar and strapped him onto John’s horse.

...

John was stunned. Not by the brutality — a broken leg was nothing to someone who’d been on the wrong side of the law since childhood. What shocked him was Davey’s plan: going into the moonshine business.

He wanted to speak, but didn’t know how to start. Mac, however, asked bluntly, “Davey, we getting into the moonshine business?”

Davey nodded. “That’s right. With Dutch, I can’t see any other way out.”

“All he thinks about is robbery. Tahiti and mangoes — the man’s lost in his own head,” Mac spat. “Back in Colter Village I realised times are changing. If we keep doing things the old way, we’ll end up caught by the Pinkerton Detective Agency and swinging from the gallows.”

“Bootlegging has competition, sure, but those revenue agents aren’t the Pinkertons. We’ll have an easier time dealing with them,” Davey went on. “I checked — Valentine’s crew is mostly O’Driscoll. We were going to handle them anyway.”

In that moment Davey made clear his distrust of Dutch and his intent to leave the gang.

“Davey, my brother, I’m with you,” Mac said without hesitation.

John fell silent, regretting that he’d come.

John Marston was born in 1873. His father, a Scottish immigrant, had conceived him during an encounter with a prostitute aboard a ship bound for New York. His father longed for Scotland but despised his own great-grandfather and left home. Illiterate, he taught John little; later he drank himself blind in a bar on Chicago’s South Side, was beaten and blinded, and died in 1881. John was eight and was sent to an orphanage.

After some time there, John escaped and, in 1885 at just twelve, joined the Van der Linde Gang. Under Dutch’s guidance he learned hunting and how to handle weapons. Like Arthur, John regarded Dutch as a father. Dutch always called Arthur and John “my children.” John’s loyalty to Dutch ran deep.

Davey had chosen to tell John because he knew how much John loved Abigail, despite her painful past. Abigail’s dream was to leave the gang’s violent life and raise little Jackie properly. Davey — who knew the plot of the game from a previous life — understood that when push came to shove, John would choose Abigail. It was a natural choice: nobody asked him to kill Dutch, only to secure a better life for little Jackie.

John was torn now, but Davey was confident Abigail could persuade him.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Painted Sky.
Wróbel’s Ranch.

Due to poor management, the place had fallen into ruin. When Davey and his group arrived, Wróbel happened to be standing outside the house.

“(Polish) Who are you, and why have you come to my ranch?”
Seeing the intimidating group, Wróbel asked nervously.

Davey, not understanding Polish, smiled and replied in English, “Hello, Mr. Wróbel. We’re here regarding Leopold Strauss’s debt. It’s time to settle up.”

Meanwhile, Benedict, still slung over John’s horse, kept groaning in pain.

“(German) Leopold Strauss? Ah, the German. Then let’s speak in the language of the Reich,” Wróbel said cautiously.

Davey didn’t respond. He dismounted and said to Mac, “Mac, drag him inside.”

Mac chuckled, grabbed Wróbel like a chick, and tossed him onto the floor inside the house.

Davey pulled up a chair and sat down. “Listen, Mr. Wróbel. If I hear another word of Polish or German, I’ll break your left leg.”

“Don’t try to play games with me. I can’t stand liars. You saw what happened to that man earlier—he lied to me, and now his left leg’s broken.”

“So I expect you to be honest.”

“Of course, if you really can’t speak English, that’s fine too. I’ll break both your legs and forgive your debt. So, make your choice, Mr. Wróbel.”

Davey’s tone was calm, almost conversational—but that only made Wróbel more afraid. He could tell the man before him was deadly serious.

“I... sir, you know how terrible this winter has been,” Wróbel stammered, fear on his face. “I don’t have any money right now.”

Davey nodded slightly. “So, Mr. Wróbel, you’re choosing to have me forgive your debt and break both your legs?”

Terrified, Wróbel pleaded, “Please don’t do that, sir. Just give me a little time. I swear I’ll get the money.”

Davey didn’t answer. He sat silently, tapping his fingers lightly on the table.

Thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump.

With every tap, Wróbel’s heart pounded faster. It felt like Davey was deciding how best to deal with him.

Suddenly, the tapping stopped. Davey looked up at him and said, “Fifty dollars. That’s not much, Mr. Wróbel. On my way here, I heard a horse in your stable. Maybe you could sell it.”

“That’d be enough to pay what you owe, wouldn’t it? You might even have a bit left over.”

“Mac, go check the stable. See what kind of horse he’s got.”

Wróbel tensed immediately.

Mac went to the stable and soon returned. “Oh, Davey, it’s a Hungarian cross. More than enough to clear the debt,” he called out.

Wróbel shouted in panic, “No, sir, please don’t! That horse is already mortgaged to the bank! If you take it, I’ll be ruined!”

Davey smiled. “Mr. Wróbel, if we don’t take it, won’t you end up ruined anyway?”

“Your ranch has nothing left. So tell me—how exactly do you plan to repay the debt?”

“Or are you waiting for the bank to seize everything before admitting you can’t pay?”

Wróbel stammered, unable to find an answer.

At that point, Davey decided it was time to move on.

“Listen, Mr. Wróbel. I’ve got a business proposal—one that’s very profitable. If you’re willing to work with me, not only will your debt be cleared, but you’ll earn enough to pay off the bank as well.”

Wróbel looked at him in disbelief. “Sir... what kind of business are we talking about?”

Davey got straight to it. “Moonshine. The moonshine trade. You know how much it makes. I need you to use the ranch’s name to quietly buy the raw materials I need. That shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

Wróbel hesitated. “But sir, moonshine is illegal.”

Davey chuckled. “Oh, such a good citizen of America. So tell me, Mr. Wróbel—would you rather go bankrupt?”

Wróbel realized he had no other choice. “Alright, sir. I’ll work for you.”

Davey nodded. “Good. Then, Mr. Wróbel, your debt is forgiven, and your legs remain intact.”

“In a few days, someone will contact you. I’ll cover the cost of the materials—at twice the normal rate.”

He then pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. “This might help you get by for now. I’ll deduct it from your wages later.”

Holding the money in his hands, Wróbel finally let out a breath of relief.

“Thank you, sir. How should I address you... my employer?”

“Davey Callander,” he replied. “You can call me Mr. Callander.”

Chapter Text

Wróbel’s total debt, with interest, came to only $38.80.
Not only had Davey forgiven it, but he’d also handed Wróbel fifty dollars in cash.
Though he called it an advance, it greatly eased Wróbel’s burden. For now, at least, he didn’t have to worry about his loans.

Davey did this because Wróbel was an honest man—someone he didn’t have to fear would run away.
That made him entirely different from the counterfeit medicine peddler, Benedict.
A mix of intimidation and generosity worked perfectly on someone like Wróbel.

“Mr. Callander, please, have mercy. Let me go to the clinic for treatment,” Benedict begged as they prepared to set off again.
“If not, my leg may never heal properly. It’ll get inflamed—infected even.”

Though he was a seller of fake medicine, it was well known that anyone who could make counterfeit drugs had to understand at least some medicine.
Benedict knew his leg was in bad shape, but with timely care, it could fully recover.
If left untreated, though, he’d end up crippled for life.

“Of course, Mr. Benedict,” Davey said with a grin. “We can stop by Valentine’s clinic and have you treated.”

Benedict looked uneasy. “Mr. Callander, I’d like that, but there’s a bounty on me. If I go to Valentine, they’ll arrest me.”
“If possible, could you buy me some medical supplies instead? I think I can handle the treatment myself.”

Davey smirked. “Oh, Mr. Benedict, aren’t you afraid you’ll end up killing yourself? Plenty of folks have died after taking your fake medicine.”

Benedict sighed helplessly. “Mr. Callander, I do know some basic medical procedures.”

Davey stopped teasing him. “Relax, Mr. Benedict. I already paid your ransom—you’re safe now.
It cost me a hundred dollars to clear it, so you’d better work hard and pay me back.”

For the first time, Benedict felt a flicker of genuine gratitude.
He knew his bounty had been fifty dollars, and ransom always cost double—one hundred.
And Davey had paid it before Benedict had even done a thing.

“Alright, boys,” Davey said, “let’s get moving—to Valentine.”

Benedict’s leg still needed proper care. Mac had been ruthless, but not to the point of crippling him permanently.
Even with treatment, full recovery would take over a month.
Davey figured that within that time, once Benedict started earning money, he’d drop any thoughts of running.
After all, he’d peddled fake medicine for one reason only—to make money.

They arrived in Valentine around five in the afternoon.
It was dinnertime, but Davey took Benedict straight to the clinic.

The doctor at the Valentine Clinic had a little side business.
It wasn’t by choice, though—he’d been forced into it by threats from the O’Driscoll Gang.

In the game’s story, players could find a letter on the doctor written by Donal O’Driscoll, one of the gang members.
The letter was full of warnings and threats, even against his wife, Mrs. Calloway, and mentioned that the doctor had spoken ill of the O’Driscolls.
Back then, when first threatened, the doctor had tried reporting it to the sheriff’s office.
But it did no good—the deputy sheriff was already in on it with the O’Driscolls.

In the game, players could even spot the deputy taking bribes outside the clinic.
Of course, in the real world, things wouldn’t play out so blatantly.

Caught between the law and the outlaws, a small-town doctor like him had no power to fight back—especially when he got a share of the money.

The doctor’s name was Ben Calloway. Under American law, women took their husband’s surname after marriage.
For instance, Sadie was called Mrs. Adler.

Once inside, Doctor Calloway began treating Benedict’s leg.
“Oh, it’s you, Benedict,” he said with surprise. “What happened to you? I heard someone paid your ransom just the other day. You really are a lucky one.”

The two men knew each other—they were, after all, in the same trade.
Benedict mostly operated between Valentine and Annesburg, where his supply channels were based.
In fact, the Valentine Clinic itself had been one of his sources for counterfeit medicine ingredients.

Benedict gave a strained laugh, and Calloway quickly pieced it together—Benedict wasn’t here by choice.
The two men with him were no friends of his.
Something similar had happened to Calloway once before.

While the two talked, Davey’s eyes drifted to the window.
Outside, he saw Valentine’s deputy sheriff loitering near the door.

At a glance, the man seemed to be on duty—but in truth, he was standing guard.
If anything suspicious happened inside, he’d make sure the secret—and everyone who knew it—stayed buried there forever.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

“Doctor, I’ve noticed a clergyman conducting charity fundraising around town lately. Do you know anything about it?”
Davey asked casually.
He already knew about Thomas Downes, but he asked on purpose so Mac and John could hear.

Ben Calloway, who was applying medicine to Benedict’s leg, replied naturally.
“Sir, you must be referring to Thomas Downes. He’s seeking redemption these days—raising money for an orphanage.”
“If you’re thinking of doing some good yourself, I’d advise keeping your distance. Mr. Downes is suffering from a severe infectious disease—tuberculosis.”
“There’s no effective cure for that, so I suppose he hopes that by doing good deeds, he’ll find peace in heaven after death.”

Perhaps out of boredom, Dr. Calloway added with a hint of sarcasm, “Honestly, I can’t quite understand Mr. Downes. His ranch was doing well, yet he’s pouring every penny into charity.
I’ve heard he’s even borrowing money from others. Poor Mrs. Downes—what will she do once he’s gone?”

That was all Davey needed to hear.
After Benedict’s treatment, he took the three of them to a restaurant in Valentine for dinner.

In the game of his past life, restaurants weren’t a feature. Even if the buildings existed, players couldn’t enter them.
But in reality, Valentine naturally had restaurants. With its steady flow of travelers, people needed a place to eat.
Locals, however, rarely ate out—they preferred home-cooked meals.

This particular restaurant looked rather upscale.
It offered pizzas of various flavors, bread, hearty soups, steaks, desserts, and ice cream—paired with a glass of red wine or fruit wine.
The average meal cost around two to three dollars, more than a day’s wages for the average laborer.
Only the middle class could afford to dine there.

“Davey, my brother, I can see you’ve become a man of refinement, while I, your younger brother, remain just a cowboy.”
Mac enjoyed his steak, soaking in the unfamiliar atmosphere.

Though they’d once had money, they rarely ate in restaurants, preferring to fill their bellies in saloons instead—with a strong drink to wash it down.
Restaurants rarely served hard liquor, offering only mild wine or spirits with meals.
The diners here were refined, and Mac’s rough manners drew frowns from nearby patrons.

But the sight of Davey, John, and Mac was enough to make them think twice about saying anything—especially with John’s scarred face looking downright menacing.
Only Benedict appeared slightly less intimidating.

“Once it gets dark, we’ve got work to do. So let’s eat well first,” Davey said offhandedly.

When it came to the moonshine business, there was one key step left:
choosing the location for their operation.

Davey intended to make Valentine his base of operations. The town’s location was ideal, with plenty of travelers coming and going.
Most importantly, the gang that controlled the area was their sworn enemy—the O’Driscoll Gang.

Unlike the Van der Linde Gang, the O’Driscolls numbered around two hundred, a ragtag bunch of lowlifes.
Aside from Colm’s inner circle, most couldn’t even ride or shoot properly.
Valentine wasn’t Colm’s main base, and only a small faction of the gang operated here.
They posed no real threat to the Callander brothers.

The site Davey had in mind for the speakeasy came straight from a side mission in the game’s storyline—the serial killer quest.
In that mission, players had to find four clues to locate the killer’s hideout—a cellar not far from Valentine.
Davey already knew exactly where that cellar was, so he didn’t need any clues.

They decided to wait until nightfall. The place belonged to the killer, and he usually returned only after dark; during the day, he was likely away.

When night came, Davey led John and Mac to the cellar.
As for Benedict, Davey gave him two hundred dollars to buy moonshine distilling equipment.
A basic setup cost about a hundred, but Davey wanted the best—more efficient and reliable tools.

Even moonshine had its differences—flavor, smoothness, and alcohol content varied greatly.
If they were going to do it, they’d do it right. Building a good reputation mattered more than quick profit.

With the general location in mind, finding the cellar wasn’t hard.
Above it stood a shabby little shack, easy to spot.
The cellar had a combination lock—in the game, you needed all the clues to open it.
Now, it only took two bullets.

A foul stench hit them as the door swung open. Mac and John went in first, Davey following last.
Inside, they saw piles of skulls—victims—all over the place, along with a few letters.
One was from Edmund’s mother, another addressed to a newspaper editor.
They suggested that Edmund’s mental state had been unstable.

The cellar wasn’t large, about twenty square meters, divided into three sections.
The walls were lined with cleavers, bone saws, and other blades. In the last section lay a headless corpse.

“Damn it, what kind of sick bastard lives here?” Mac muttered, disgusted.

They were killers too, but never ones for senseless cruelty.

Unfortunately, the deranged murderer, Edmund, wasn’t there.
Just then, Davey heard a noise coming from above the cellar...

Chapter Text

Davey rushed outside immediately—he couldn’t risk anyone, whether a passerby or a stranger, discovering the place.
As soon as he reached the cellar entrance, he saw someone galloping away on Mac’s stolen horse.
The noise from earlier had come from the thief’s escape.

Without hesitation, Davey swung onto his horse and gave chase.
In the pale moonlight, he could see the rider clearly—well-dressed, likely Edmund himself.
Though a serial killer, Edmund was no fighter. He preyed on the helpless, striking only in secret.
In riding skill, he was no match for Davey.

Within moments, Davey was close enough to fire.
Draw. Shoot. Headshot.
That was the precision of a master gunslinger.

Behind him, Mac followed on John’s horse.
“Damn bastard—he stole my horse!”
Fuming, Mac dismounted and kicked the corpse several times to vent his anger.

“This must be that psycho killer, Edmund,” he said.
Davey glanced at the body—his appearance matched perfectly with the character from the game’s story.

“Alright, gentlemen. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”
The cellar clearly needed some renovation before it could be used. Mac hauled the corpse and tossed it off a nearby cliff, and the three of them headed back.

“Davey, are you really planning to leave the gang?”
John, who had been quiet ever since they left the burned-out town of Limpany, finally spoke.
The day’s events had left him reeling.

They had set out under the pretense of debt collection, but from the moment they met the fake medicine peddler, things had taken a very different turn.
At Wróbel’s ranch, Davey hadn’t come to collect money—he’d been after the man himself.
And now, with the cellar secured, the distiller recruited, and the supply chain in place, Davey had essentially completed every step needed to start his moonshine business.

It was almost unbelievable.
John, who had never been educated, couldn’t understand how something as complicated as moonshine production seemed so simple in Davey’s hands.

John spoke up, and Mac looked at Davey too.
Though Mac would follow his brother no matter what, even he didn’t quite understand why Davey suddenly wanted to leave the gang.
To him, life with the Van der Linde Gang wasn’t bad at all.

Up above the cellar, Davey didn’t rush to clean up. Instead, he pulled out three cigarettes and handed one to each of them.
John and Mac struck matches to light theirs, but Davey produced a lighter.

“John, Mac—see this lighter? I bought it in Valentine,” he said.
“Civilization from the East is spreading across the whole West. This place isn’t the wild frontier it used to be.”
“The age of cowboys is coming to an end. It’s an unstoppable tide of history, and anyone who tries to fight it will be crushed.”

“Look at Dutch now—what’s he doing? Every day, it’s just robbery after robbery. Has he ever thought about living a peaceful life?”
“To hell with Tahiti and his damn mango farm—that’s just an excuse. I’m done running with him.”

“Times have changed. There are better ways to make money now than waving a gun in people’s faces.”
“Especially you, John—you’ve got Abigail and little Jack. Do you really want them living this kind of life forever?”

Davey’s words were aimed squarely at John. Mac, being his brother, would follow him regardless.

John was moved, but still said, “Dutch has a plan. Once we sell the bonds, he’ll take us away. Then we’ll finally be free.”
“Davey, you should trust him. After all these years, only Blackwater went wrong.”

Clearly, John thought Davey’s mistrust came solely from the Blackwater fiasco.

“No, it’s not just that. We’ve angered powerful men. The Pinkertons are already closing in. It’s only a matter of time before they find us.”
“Then what? We’ll just keep running. You’ll see—Dutch will only get more reckless.”

Davey didn’t expect to change John’s mind right away. He was just planting the seed.
The key would be Abigail—her words would reach John far deeper than his ever could.

John looked conflicted. He wanted a peaceful life, but his loyalty to Dutch wouldn’t let him betray the man who’d raised him.

“Davey, I’m sorry. Maybe you’re right... but I can’t turn my back on Dutch,” John said quietly.
“I won’t tell him about your moonshine plans, though.”

Davey nodded. “Alright, John. I trust you.”

Then it was time to get to work.
With no one else to rely on, Davey had to do everything himself.

Fortunately, all three of them were strong and capable.
After working through most of the night, they finally cleared the cellar.
Once they tore down the wooden partitions, the space felt much larger.
But the heavy stench of rot still lingered—it would take days to fade.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Over the next few days, Davey and his two companions didn’t return to camp. Instead, they stayed behind to build the moonshine distillery.
John naturally stayed to help, and Davey wouldn’t let him work for free.
The equipment and supplies ordered by Benedict and Wróbel would take some time to arrive.

In 1899, there were plenty of moonshiners across the frontier, but the trade wasn’t particularly profitable.
Moonshine existed, but it wasn’t especially popular, and federal authorities weren’t yet cracking down hard on it.
Still, producing, selling, or transporting moonshine was an illegal business.
The true golden age of bootlegging wouldn’t come until twenty years later, when Prohibition was enacted—banning the production, sale, and transport of any beverage with over five percent alcohol. Drinking itself, however, remained legal.

Even so, for Davey, moonshining was a lucrative opportunity—easy to start, and distillers weren’t hard to find.
He had chosen Benedict specifically because, as a counterfeit medicine peddler, the man already had a basic understanding of chemistry.
Davey’s goal was to create a blend of “science and spirit”—a refined, high-quality moonshine.
That required someone with real chemical knowledge, and in the West, finding such a person was harder than robbing a bank.
Benedict was the only viable choice.

A few days later, the distillery was nearly complete, and the equipment arrived by train.
At the same time, the 500 empty glass bottles Wróbel had ordered were also delivered.
Distilling the liquor wasn’t hard; the real challenge lay in fine-tuning the taste.
That task fell to Benedict, who bought various flavorings to experiment with.
It would take several more days to adjust the flavor, distill the malt syrup and yeast, and perfect the recipe.

Meanwhile, Davey focused on expanding their sales channels.
His first target was Doctor Ben Calloway at the Valentine Clinic.
Once their moonshine hit the streets, the O’Driscoll Gang that operated in Valentine would inevitably notice—and conflict would follow.
So Davey planned to strike first.

“Mac, John, I’ve dug up some intel,” Davey said.
“There’s a hidden room behind the Valentine Clinic, controlled by the O’Driscoll Gang. They’re working with the deputy sheriff, trafficking illegal drugs.”
“We need to take them out.”

Hearing that, John instinctively asked, “Davey, shouldn’t we tell Sheriff Malloy about this?”

Davey chuckled. “John, Sheriff Malloy’s been in Valentine for years. You think he doesn’t know what his deputy’s up to? He’s just taking his share of the cut.”
“That’s why we need to move fast and settle this quietly—and for that, we’ll need Doctor Calloway’s cooperation.”
“Benedict will handle that part.”

That evening, Davey had Benedict invite Doctor Calloway to dinner.
In a private booth at an upscale restaurant, Davey and Benedict hosted him warmly.

It’s worth noting that in the game’s storyline from Davey’s previous life, the “Little Devil” Calloway was actually this very doctor’s brother.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Benedict, Mr. Callander. You really didn’t need to go to such trouble,” Doctor Calloway said pleasantly.
The fine food and red wine had clearly lifted his spirits.
By now, he was fairly acquainted with Davey, since Benedict’s supply of medical alcohol came directly from his clinic.

“No need to be formal, Doctor Calloway,” Davey said smoothly. “This is the least we can do. But about that medical alcohol—do you think you could supply us with a bit more?”
“The current amount just isn’t enough. From what I hear, your clinic orders plenty of alcohol these days.”
“Surely, Doctor, you wouldn’t deny a friend, would you?”

Davey was dressed in the gentleman’s suit he’d bought earlier, his tone polite but witty, carrying the easy confidence of a man of means.

Doctor Calloway took a sip of wine and gave a weary smile.
“Mr. Callander, it’s not that I don’t want to help. It’s just... some of those supplies have been diverted for other purposes. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

Davey smiled faintly. “Doctor Calloway, what if I could take care of those ‘other purposes’ for you?”

Calloway froze, his expression shifting. “Mr. Callander... you know about them?”

Davey nodded calmly. “Of course I do. And I know you went to the sheriff’s office, but it didn’t do any good, did it?”
“In the end, you were threatened by a member of the O’Driscoll Gang named Donal.”
“That letter—am I right, Doctor Calloway?”

The doctor was stunned. He hadn’t imagined this man, Davey Callander, would know so much.
“Mr. Callander, if you already know, then why would you…” Calloway began cautiously.

Davey leaned back, completely composed. “Because, Doctor Calloway, if I know all this, that means I’m already certain of how this will end.”
“Of course, I’ll need your cooperation.”

Chapter Text

“How should I cooperate with you, Mr. Callander?”
Dr. Ben Calloway hesitated before asking.

His partnership with the O’Driscoll Gang had never been pleasant. They took most of the profit while leaving him with only scraps—barely enough to justify the risk of breaking the law.
That was why he had gone to the police in the first place.
But when he learned that the sheriff’s office was also involved, he’d given up on resisting.

Now, faced with Davey’s confident tone and frighteningly precise knowledge, Calloway saw a glimmer of hope.

“It’s simple, Dr. Calloway,” Davey said with a calm smile. “All you need to do is file a report. Tell the police what’s been happening. I’ll handle the rest.”

Calloway still looked uncertain. As one of Davey’s suppliers, he knew the man was running a moonshine operation.
Anyone daring enough to brew illegal liquor in these times clearly had both brains and guts—and even Benedict worked under him now.

And truth be told, Calloway was tired of living under the O’Driscolls’ threats.

“Alright, Mr. Callander. I’ll do it,” Calloway finally said through clenched teeth.

Davey raised his glass. “To our cooperation, Dr. Calloway.”

...

After dinner, Davey secretly ordered John to follow Calloway.
He trusted no one completely. If the doctor betrayed him to the O’Driscolls, Davey would rather have him dead than risk exposure.

Calloway did consider snitching—but in the end, he didn’t.
Davey’s composure and access to sensitive information had convinced him that the man wasn’t alone.
He assumed Davey had informants everywhere—inside the police, maybe even within the O’Driscoll Gang itself.
Otherwise, how could he have known about the threatening letter?

That line of thinking saved Calloway’s life.
Had he gone anywhere other than home that night, John would’ve shot him dead on the road.

...

The next morning, Calloway opened his clinic as usual. Around eleven o’clock, Davey arrived with Mac and John.
From the window, Calloway gave Davey a discreet nod.
That was the signal—the O’Driscoll men were inside.

Davey didn’t rush in. Instead, he strolled toward the deputy sheriff who was “patrolling” nearby.

“Officer,” Davey said, sounding slightly out of breath, “I just came from the Helton Inn. There’s a fight going on—armed men.”

“Goddamn it,” the deputy muttered.
He glanced back at the clinic, decided nothing looked suspicious, and quickly gathered a few officers to head toward the inn.

As a deputy, he couldn’t ignore a public report in broad daylight.

Once he was gone, Davey motioned to the others. The three of them entered the clinic and quietly shut the door behind them.

Calloway stepped out from behind the counter. “The secret room can only be opened from the inside, Mr. Callander. Be careful—they’re armed. Don’t let them see you.”

He walked to the back of the clinic and knocked on a hidden door. “Hey, boys—it’s me. I brought you some food and drink.”

A small window on the door slid open, and one of the gang members peeked out cautiously.
Davey, Mac, and John waited silently in the shadows.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Calloway said in a friendly tone.

The man inside relaxed and unlocked the door.
The moment it opened, Mac burst forward—just as Davey had ordered earlier: shoot first, no hesitation.

Mac’s revolver barked three times in rapid succession. The O’Driscoll thugs barely had time to react before they hit the floor.
When Davey entered, only one woman remained.

Maybe Mac thought she wasn’t a threat—or maybe he just didn’t want to shoot a woman.
But Davey knew better. She was one of them—and her hand was reaching for something beneath her skirt.

Bang!

Davey shot her dead without a moment’s hesitation.

John frowned. “Davey… maybe she was just an innocent woman.”

The memory of Blackwater flashed through his mind—Dutch had done the same thing once, killing indiscriminately. The thought made him uneasy.

“Mac, lift her skirt,” Davey ordered.

Mac hesitated, then did as told. Sure enough, there was a revolver strapped to her thigh.

A woman who could hide a gun like that wasn’t nearly as harmless as she looked.

“Sorry, Davey,” John said quietly. “I misjudged you.”

Davey smiled faintly. “It’s fine, John. When I came in, I saw the look in her eyes—and her hand was moving toward her skirt. She was about to strike. I just made sure none of my brothers got hurt.”

This wasn’t a game. Getting shot here didn’t mean losing health—it meant dying for good.
Even the best gunslinger in the world wouldn’t survive that.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

On the table in the secret room sat a box. Davey stepped forward and opened it, revealing a Schofield revolver—a fine piece of craftsmanship.
He casually slipped it into his pocket.

In the game, one had to complete missions to unlock a second holster, but in reality, Davey could simply buy one.

As for the cash on the table, it looked like a decent haul at first glance, but most of it consisted of small bills—ones and fives—amounting to only a few dozen dollars.
Davey let John and Mac split the money.

Meanwhile, Dr. Ben Calloway was already following through with the plan.
After leaving the clinic, he went straight to the Valentine police station to report the O’Driscolls’ crimes to Sheriff Malloy.

The gunfire had caused too much commotion to cover up.
By the time Davey and the others exited the secret room, Sheriff Malloy, his deputy, and over a dozen armed officers were already positioned at the entrance.

Davey didn’t step out right away.
Only when Dr. Calloway shouted, “Sheriff Malloy! They’re my friends—they helped me!”
did Davey finally emerge from the clinic.

He already had the Schofield drawn and ready.

The instant he stepped outside, he spotted the deputy lifting his gun—clearly intending to eliminate everyone and bury the evidence inside.

Bang!

The gunshot echoed—but it wasn’t the deputy who fired.
Davey had shot the pistol clean out of his hand.

“Sheriff Malloy, what the hell is this? Are you planning to shoot the men who just took out criminals for you?”
Davey stepped back into cover as he spoke, his tone sharp.

A flicker of shock crossed Sheriff Malloy’s face.
He’d been in law enforcement long enough to recognize the precision of that shot.
That was the work of a master gunslinger—the kind you didn’t cross unless you had a death wish.

Forcing a confrontation now would only result in heavy casualties for the department—and possibly his own death.

“Sheriff Malloy! They’re my friends, not criminals! You can’t treat them like this!” Dr. Calloway shouted again, drawing a growing crowd of curious townsfolk.

Realizing he’d lost his chance, Malloy shot a furious glare at his deputy before barking,
“Everyone, stand down! Holster your weapons! The men inside aren’t suspects!”

Then he raised his voice toward the clinic.
“My apologies, gentlemen. One of my officers was a little… jumpy.”

Davey watched through the window until the officers lowered their guns, then calmly stepped outside again.

“Sheriff Malloy,” he said coolly, “that’s not a funny joke.”

“My apologies, sir,” Malloy replied, forcing a polite tone. “Still, we’ll need you and your companions to come down to the station to make a statement.”

“Of course,” Davey said with an easy smile. “We’ll be happy to cooperate.”

The deputy shot him a venomous look—still fuming over having been tricked earlier—but he could do nothing now except lead his men inside to inspect the scene.

Davey, John, Mac, and Dr. Calloway followed Sheriff Malloy to the station.

The situation was already clear.
Dr. Calloway explained that the O’Driscoll Gang had been blackmailing him into illegal dealings, and that Davey and his men had helped free him from their threats.

Both the sheriff and his deputy—and most of the officers—understood exactly what that meant.
They also understood that Davey had just cost them a tidy source of income.

Still, there was nothing they could charge him with. Davey had done nothing illegal.

“I remember you, Davey,” Sheriff Malloy said, irritation seeping into his tone. “The kid who came in for that bar fight a while back.”

At that moment, the deputy reentered the room.
“Maybe I should arrest you for filing a false report,” he sneered. “There was no fight at the Helton Inn.”

That remark made the situation clear to Malloy—this whole thing had been a setup.
As the deputy gave him a subtle nod, the sheriff’s expression softened noticeably.

Davey, however, cut in before the man could say more.
“Sheriff Malloy, perhaps we should talk privately… about business.”

Malloy studied Davey’s calm smile and suddenly remembered the last time they’d met—the twenty-dollar bribe.
He was starting to see where this was going.

“Alright,” the sheriff said. “Come with me.”

Davey gave a reassuring glance to Mac, John, and Dr. Calloway before following Malloy into his office.

Once the door shut behind them, the sheriff crossed his arms. “Alright, Davey. What do you want to talk about?”

Davey smiled.
“The O’Driscoll Gang has a bad reputation, Sheriff. They don’t follow rules, and the townsfolk aren’t exactly fond of them either.”

“You don’t need to work with them—it’s more trouble than it’s worth, and it could even tarnish your name.”

“Whatever they can offer, I can offer more—and better.”

He paused, then raised three fingers.
“Every month… this much.”

Three hundred dollars.

Chapter Text

The figure of three hundred dollars wasn’t something Davey had pulled out of thin air.
In the clinic’s secret room, there had been a ledger—one that recorded every detail of numerous transactions, including bribes paid to the police department.

Earlier, the deputy sheriff had rushed into that same room searching for the ledger.
It was evidence of their collusion with the O’Driscoll Gang.
When Sheriff Malloy saw the deputy come in and give a subtle nod, he realized that Davey didn’t have the book on him.

According to the ledger, the O’Driscoll Gang paid the police department two hundred dollars every month.
That might not sound like much, but in those days, it was a considerable amount.
The clinic’s illegal drug trade only made so much profit—and with plenty of risk involved—so paying two hundred dollars to the police was already a steep price.

At the time, even the sheriff of Valentine earned only a little more than an ordinary worker—around fifty dollars a month.
Deputies and officers earned even less.
So two hundred dollars was, without a doubt, a generous sum.
Three hundred, however, was enough to outbid the O’Driscolls and make Sheriff Malloy truly interested.

“Why should I trust you, Davey?” the sheriff asked, his tone skeptical.
He didn’t believe Davey could guarantee three hundred dollars every month. That was no small figure—especially as a steady payment.

The question alone told Davey that his plan was already working.
“Sheriff Malloy, you can ask Doctor Calloway yourself—we’re partners in a moonshine business,” he said with a confident smile.
“It’s far more profitable than those pharmaceutical trades.”
“If I’m offering three hundred dollars, you can be sure I’ve got the means to make it happen.”
“And besides—three hundred is just the starting price. Once the business grows, there’ll be even more coming your way.”

As he spoke, Davey pulled out three wallets stuffed with bills—three hundred dollars in total.
“This is this month’s share. I wouldn’t dream of letting the department take a loss.”

Nothing spoke louder than cash.

Seeing the money laid out before him, Sheriff Malloy’s face split into a wide grin.
He scooped up all three wallets and slipped them into his pocket as naturally as breathing.
“You’re right, Davey. Those O’Driscoll bastards were nothing but trouble anyway.”

Facing the sheriff’s cheery grin, Davey reached into his pocket again and produced another bill—this time a hundred-dollar note.
“This first partnership came together rather quickly, Sheriff, and I didn’t have much time to prepare,” Davey said, smiling as he stepped forward. “This is just a small token of personal appreciation. I hope you won’t take it the wrong way.”

“Oh, Davey, you really... you’re too kind,” Sheriff Malloy said, his wrinkles deepening with an unrestrained grin. He hadn’t expected such a generous bonus.
In that instant, Davey had become his favorite man in town.

When the two of them emerged from the office, walking shoulder to shoulder and laughing together, the tension that had filled the station evaporated instantly.
Doctor Calloway finally relaxed. He could tell that Mr. Callander had successfully secured the sheriff’s cooperation.
The deputy sheriff didn’t know exactly what had been discussed, but he understood that from this moment on, the department’s relationship with Davey had changed completely.

Davey and Sheriff Malloy chatted like old friends catching up after years apart, laughing and trading stories.
They only parted once they reached the front lobby of the station.

Davey glanced at the deputy and the other officers before speaking.
“Sheriff Malloy, I really do apologize for all the trouble this has caused. You and your men have worked hard today.”
“To make it up to you, I’ll be hosting a dinner tomorrow evening at Wells Restaurant. I’d be honored if you and the rest of the department would join me.”

Wells Restaurant was Valentine’s only upscale eatery, with meals costing around three dollars per person.
Including the sheriff and his deputy, there were twenty-seven officers in total—meaning the dinner alone would run close to a hundred dollars.

Sheriff Malloy was absolutely delighted.
Davey wasn’t just paying more than the O’Driscolls—he’d given him a personal gift and was now treating the entire station to a fine dinner.

Even the officers, who had looked grim moments ago, perked up at the mention of Wells Restaurant.
Extra income at the department usually went straight to the sheriff and his deputy; regular officers got little more than scraps.
A night at the fanciest restaurant in town was an unexpected luxury.

Then, one officer raised his hand awkwardly and asked, “Mr. Callander… would it be alright if we brought our families?”

The room went silent for a moment.
The question immediately turned the mood awkward.
The other officers glared daggers at the man.

This was Wells Restaurant—there were already twenty-seven of them.
Bringing families? That was out of the question.

Realizing his mistake, the officer stammered, “I—sorry, Mr. Callander. I just… I didn’t mean…”

Sheriff Malloy shot him a withering glare.
He’d just pocketed a hundred-dollar gift from Davey, and now this fool had to go and embarrass him in front of everyone.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

“I should be the one apologizing, officer.”
“I was negligent about the banquet arrangements—thank you for the reminder.”
“For tomorrow’s dinner, gentlemen, you’re welcome to bring your spouses. And for those who aren’t married, feel free to bring your sweethearts.”
“As for any officer without a sweetheart—well, there’s still time to find one.”

Davey’s playful humor instantly broke the awkward atmosphere, and laughter filled the station.
The officers quickly warmed to the generous Mr. Callander.
Davey knew it wasn’t his charm they liked—it was the charm of money.

Sheriff Malloy was pleased as well. These men had been with him for years, and he didn’t want to fire one of them over a minor slip. In Valentine, the sheriff’s word was law.
That was different from how things worked in Davey’s previous life. Valentine didn’t even have a mayor—and even if it did, it wouldn’t change the sheriff’s authority.
In the United States, elected mayors served voluntarily and earned no salary—so-called “unpaid civil servants.”
In later times, it became a running joke that even dogs or children were sometimes elected mayors.

...

Once they stepped out of the station, Mac was fuming.
“Fuck, Davey! Why’d you invite them to Wells Restaurant? That’s a fortune!”
“And letting them bring their families? A hundred bucks won’t even cover it!”

John didn’t understand either.
They had just looted a few dozen dollars from the secret room and split it between them—that was already worth celebrating.
But Davey was acting like money grew on trees, inviting the whole department to a fancy dinner.

Davey ignored Mac and patted Doctor Ben Calloway on the shoulder.
“Mr. Calloway, please be sure to attend tomorrow’s banquet. I believe our partnership will be very rewarding.”

Doctor Calloway was in great spirits. He was finally free from the O’Driscoll Gang’s threats—and he despised anyone who used his wife against him.
Davey’s friendly attitude and fair business split made him feel much more comfortable.
“Of course, Mr. Callander. I’m certain we’ll work together wonderfully,” Calloway replied before leaving to handle the aftermath of the hidden room incident. His clinic would clearly stay closed for the day.

After the doctor left, Davey threw an arm around Mac’s shoulder.
“Mac, don’t worry about a little money. He’s going to protect our business.”
“Only then can we expand what we’ve started here in Valentine.”
“Listen, Mac—I have a plan...”

John followed beside them, and when he heard those words, something flickered in his eyes.
It was like seeing Dutch again.

...

The next evening’s banquet.

Every member of the Valentine Police Department showed up—with their families.
Dining at Wells Restaurant was a rare luxury.
Many married officers even brought their children, bringing the total to nearly seventy people—practically filling the entire place.

Some officers felt a little embarrassed for bringing so many kids, thinking it might be a bit much.
But they couldn’t resist giving their children the chance to experience such a fine evening.

Davey didn’t mind at all. He even told the restaurant staff to prepare special children’s meals for every child—and arranged for each one to receive a small toy as a gift.
Even if those toys were only worth a few cents, the gesture meant everything.

The officers who’d brought kids felt proud and grateful to Mr. Callander.
And Davey hadn’t forgotten the ladies either—each woman received a small gift, either perfume or a hairpin.
The presents weren’t expensive, but they were elegant, and every woman received the same.

The delighted exclamations from their wives and sweethearts filled the room, satisfying the vanity of every man there.
One after another, they toasted Davey, expressing their thanks.

Even though the drinks were mild, after so many toasts Davey felt a little lightheaded—but his strong constitution kept him steady.

Fueled by the alcohol, he walked a bit unsteadily toward the deputy sheriff.
The deputy tensed up as Davey approached.

Just yesterday, when Davey had stepped out of the clinic, the deputy had been ready to shoot him dead—until Davey shot the gun clean out of his hand before he could even react.
That was the mark of a sharpshooter.

Now, if Davey chose to humiliate him, the deputy would lose all dignity—and possibly his job.
The sheriff had the power to hire and fire anyone under him, even his own deputy.

Sheriff Malloy turned his gaze toward Davey, curious to see how he’d handle the situation.
And truth be told, if Davey insisted, Malloy wouldn’t mind firing his deputy.
After all, Davey had given him far too much to say no.

Chapter Text

Davey, however, had no intention of making things difficult for the deputy sheriff.
He began by complimenting the beauty of the woman at the deputy’s side, then gave the man a warm hug and a firm handshake.

The deputy immediately felt something unusual in his palm and understood what Davey meant.
He quickly lifted his glass with a smile. “From now on, Mr. Callander, you can count on me as your best friend.”

Sheriff Malloy finally let out a quiet sigh of relief. The deputy had served under him for years—loyal, obedient, and reliable. He had no desire to dismiss him over such matters.
After Davey moved on, the deputy discreetly glanced down at his hand. A twenty-dollar bill rested there.

He hadn’t expected Davey to give him a personal bonus as well.
That small gesture sealed his resolve—he would make sure Davey’s business in Valentine was protected at all costs.

Even with the alcohol still in his system, Davey’s mind remained sharp.
The deputy might be second-in-command, but he was the one handling most of the day-to-day affairs.
And after so many years in the department, he undoubtedly had his own network of allies.
Forcing him out would only create unnecessary trouble and sour things with Sheriff Malloy. It was far wiser to turn an enemy into a friend and draw him into his own circle.

As it turned out, Davey’s decision was absolutely right.
While he and the deputy spoke, several officers across the restaurant cast glances their way.
They were close to the deputy and knew all about what had happened the day before.
Choosing between their longtime colleague and the generous Mr. Callander hadn’t been easy.
But seeing the two men laughing, talking, and shaking hands finally put their minds at ease.

...

John and Mac, on the other hand, felt painfully out of place.
Neither of them could talk the way Davey did. They would have preferred a gunfight to sitting through this dinner.

“Mac,” John muttered, “Davey’s changed. He’s starting to look like one of those high-society types.”

The two didn’t fit in at all with the crowd, and all they could do was focus on the food before them. By now, they’d already eaten two steaks each.
Years of living rough had taught them to eat fast and hard—they weren’t the kind to savor every bite like the others.

“John, I feel the same way. Ever since Blackwater, he’s been a different man.”
“Maybe taking care of me back in Colter made him realize a few things.”
“But maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

Watching Davey move effortlessly through the crowd, Mac couldn’t help but feel a touch of envy.
These were Valentine’s lawmen, and every one of them was showering Davey with praise.

John’s thoughts grew heavier.
Seeing the officers with their wives and children made him think of Abigail and little Jack.
They’d have loved an evening like this.

And he knew Davey was on his way to real success. With the Valentine Police Department on his side, his business would thrive.
This kind of life—the comfort, the respect—was everything Abigail had always dreamed of.

Remembering Davey’s earlier offer, John felt a wave of uncertainty.
His faith in following Dutch began to waver.

Both his heart and his reason told him that siding with Davey would be the wiser path—for Abigail, for Jack, and for himself.
But his loyalty to Dutch wouldn’t allow him to betray that bond.

The fine food before him suddenly lost all flavor.
Even later, lying in his bed at the Helton Inn, John couldn’t sleep.

...

After the banquet, everyone of influence in Valentine—or anyone who mattered—had heard the name Davey Callander.
He hadn’t even made a move yet, but people already knew his business was about to take off.

The moonshine operation, which had been ready to begin immediately, ran into an unexpected delay—because of Davey’s strict standards.

“Mr. Benedict, you need to understand something,” Davey said seriously. “I don’t want ordinary moonshine. I want a brew that matches Kentucky bourbon, whiskey, or rum in both taste and aroma.
Only that kind of quality will build our reputation and bring in loyal customers. I have no use for poor-tasting liquor.”

In the cellar distillery, his tone was firm and focused.

There were four key aspects to blending liquor:
alcohol content, taste, color, and aroma.

Taste, color, and aroma didn’t actually affect production costs. Unlike fine spirits that relied on lengthy fermentation, moonshine was crafted through constant adjustment—mixing flavoring agents and medical-grade alcohol.

The alcohol content came down to the amount of water mixed in—simple enough.
Color was achieved by adding pigments—also easy.
The real challenge was in the flavor and aroma, which required endless testing and refinement.

Clearly, what Benedict had produced so far didn’t meet Davey’s expectations.

“My apologies, Mr. Callander,” Benedict said helplessly. “To get something close to the flavor and aroma of whiskey or other premium spirits, I’ll need more time.”

It was, after all, a slow and meticulous process—like developing the perfect recipe.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

“It's fine, I can wait. But the moonshine has to match the taste and aroma of a fine spirit.”
“These matters I have to entrust to you, Mr. Benedict.”
“I’m sure you won’t let me down.”

Despite his earlier flashiness, Davey still had over $1,600 on him. That would cover everyday expenses for a long time. So he wasn’t in a hurry—if the moonshine venture took longer to start, fine—but the quality had to be perfect. Once the recipe was set, production would never stop: steady sales, gradual expansion, hiring more hands.

“All right, Mr. Callander. I’ll keep experimenting and get you the moonshine you want as soon as I can.”

Benedict knew well that although Davey was playing the gentleman now, he was still the same cold-blooded outlaw underneath. The occasional pain in his leg reminded him of that. If he lost his usefulness or disappointed Davey, death would be his final outcome.

Having attended the police banquet, Benedict realized Davey’s power had grown a lot. There was no chance of running. Besides, if he could produce moonshine that matched whiskey in flavor and aroma, the money would start flowing—his cut, even if small, would far exceed what he made selling fake medicine. Most importantly, he’d be safer. Being a behind-the-scenes producer was far less risky than hawking bogus cures; and if danger did come, Davey would handle it.

...

After leaving the distillery, Davey planned to head back to camp. Being away for ten days or a fortnight was normal, but you still had to return now and then. He didn’t plan to leave the Van der Linde Gang yet.

“Davey, don’t worry—I didn’t tell Dutch about what you’re doing.”
“But I’m going to tell Abigail. You know she’s never liked the gang life.”

John said this on the way back. Davey replied, “I trust Abigail will make a wiser choice than you, John.”
John hesitated. “Maybe.”

Mac asked, “Davey, do we need to turn in our cut to the gang? We’ve been out half a month.”
Davey said, “I’ll cover Wróbel’s debt. You and John each hand in a dozen bucks or so.”
Mac winced. “A dozen bucks—don’t you think that’s a bit much, Davey?”

While Davey was tied up with the moonshine, Mac had been either in the saloon or drinking coffee with women. The cash he got from the clinic’s secret room had long since been spent. John was similar—he hadn’t been drinking coffee, but he bought gifts for Little Jack and Abigail, likely influenced by the banquet. He’d also spent time at the saloon.

Davey was speechless. He gave each of them about a dozen dollars and sent them back to camp to hand it in themselves. How much they actually gave was up to them. The gang technically expected half, but nobody made a fuss if you didn’t. Outlaws lived for the day, spending freely—saving was useless when one good job could change everything.

When they reached camp, many were gone. Bill, Arthur, Charles, and Kieran Duffy were absent.

“Oh—Davey, Mac, John, you’re finally back. How’d it go? Any luck?” Hosea greeted them with a smile.

Davey said, “Mostly deadbeats. That Strauss fellow keeps loaning money to people who can’t pay, then dumps the problem on us. Every time it’s like robbing folks—only we’re robbing the poor instead of the rich. And we end up playing detective; they never hand over the cash willingly. They hide it in the oddest places.”

As he spoke, Davey moved to the gang’s chest and covered Wróbel’s debt himself. John and Mac waited until he’d walked a bit away, then each dropped a few dollars into the box.

“Hey, Dutch—where’s Arthur? And Charles, Bill, Lenny, and that O’Driscoll kid? Haven’t seen them around.” Davey asked casually. There was nothing between him and Dutch right now, so he kept things friendly.

Dutch replied, “Davey, looks like you didn’t come back with much. That O’Driscoll kid finally talked—he gave us the location of the O’Driscoll camp. It’s at the Six-Point Cabin. Arthur, Bill, and Charles went ahead to scout it. You’re back just in time—if Colm’s there we’ll take him out together.”

Dutch paused, then added, “Lenny and Micah went off to gather intel.” He knew, though, that Colm probably wasn’t there; otherwise he’d have gone himself. And he knew Davey didn’t like Micah.

“All right, Dutch. We’ll wait for word from Arthur and the others.” Davey said. “That rat would be best off getting killed out there.” He made no effort to hide his disgust for Micah.

Chapter Text

Davey couldn’t be bothered to argue with Dutch.

John was whispering to Abigail, who occasionally glanced at Davey, her eyes showing a mix of surprise and awe.
Mac sat nearby, smoking a cigarette, clearly bored. After spending so long at the Helton Inn—drinking, bathing, and indulging in hot coffee and women—returning to camp felt like a downgrade.

As the saying goes, it’s easy to go from frugal to lavish, but hard to go back the other way.
Now Mac’s head was full of memories of Valentine’s pleasures.

When he saw Davey approaching, Mac immediately perked up.
“Davey, my brother, when are we heading back to Valentine?”

Davey sighed. “Mac, those women are going to drain you dry. Can’t you rest for a couple of days?”

Mac protested, “Davey, I’m strong! I can handle it.”

Davey smacked the back of his head. “No matter how strong you are, you’ll wear yourself out if you keep wasting your energy like that.”

While the two were talking, Leopold Strauss walked over.
“Davey, have all those debts been settled?”

“Only Mr. Wróbel’s,” Davey said casually. “The other two are too far away. Haven’t gone yet.”

In truth, he had no intention of collecting them at all. Whoever wanted to could handle it.

Seeing Davey’s indifferent attitude, Strauss didn’t press the issue and simply continued, “There’s another matter, Davey. A farmer I met in Valentine—also a preacher—named Downes. He’s been refusing to repay his debt. I’ve looked into it; he can pay, but he won’t, unless you go personally.”

Before Davey could answer, Mac suddenly shouted, “Downes? You mean that preacher who runs those charity drives?”

Strauss blinked in surprise. “Mac, you know him?”

Mac didn’t hold back. He grabbed Strauss by the collar and yelled, “Strauss, you disgusting bastard! Are you trying to get us killed?”

“That fool Downes has tuberculosis—it’s highly contagious! You want us to collect from him and get infected too? You damn vulture, I’ll kill you today!”

Enraged, Mac swung a heavy punch that smashed straight into Strauss’s face.

Poor Strauss never stood a chance. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth as he collapsed, struggling to get back up.
But Mac wasn’t done yet—he raised his boot, ready to kick him again.

Davey didn’t intervene. He knew Mac had control over his temper and wouldn’t actually kill Strauss. But Dutch had no choice but to step in.

“Mac! Mac! What the hell are you doing?”

Dutch hurried over, panicked. The camp’s steady income depended far more on Strauss than on any of the unreliable gunmen. He couldn’t just let him get beaten to death.

“Dutch, this bastard tried to get me and Davey infected! You think he doesn’t deserve a beating?” Mac shouted furiously.

Dutch, faced with Mac’s rage, turned to Strauss and asked, “Strauss, what’s going on here?”

Strauss, still dazed from the punch, took a moment to catch his breath. That hit nearly sent him to the grave.
“It’s one of our debtors, Dutch. I knew he was sick, but I didn’t know it was tuberculosis,” Strauss explained hastily.

Dutch tried to calm Mac down. “Mac, it’s a misunderstanding. Strauss just wanted the debt repaid—he didn’t mean you any harm. Let’s not make this worse.”

Davey finally spoke. “Enough, Mac. Mr. Strauss probably didn’t know. If he had, he’d never have lent money to someone with tuberculosis. But Dutch, after all these years collecting debts, it feels like karma’s coming for us. Maybe it’s time to let someone else handle it.”

“Arthur, John, Bill, Javier—they can do it. It’s just poor folks anyway; anyone can go.”

Dutch quickly agreed. “Alright, Davey. We’ll do as you say.”

The debt collection job had always been handled by the Callander brothers. It wasn’t exactly moral work, but it paid well. If they didn’t want to do it anymore, there were plenty of others willing to step up.

Strauss staggered away to find some medicine, too afraid to say another word to the brothers.

Dutch rubbed his temples in frustration. The Callander brothers were like live explosives—ready to blow at any moment. Ever since the Blackwater incident, they’d become harder and harder to control. Davey had been that way first, and now Mac was too.

While Mac kept cursing under his breath, John’s side of camp was much calmer.

Little Jack was running around happily, thrilled with his new gifts.
Abigail was smiling too—John had brought her perfume and a hairpin. It was the first time he’d ever brought her a present.

Davey’s expression grew complicated as he watched them.

Arthur’s nickname as “Black Lung” would never exist now. That alone was something that lifted a weight from Davey’s heart.
But still... without tuberculosis, did Arthur even need redemption anymore?

...

(35 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Around dusk, Arthur, Bill, Charles, and Kieran Duffy returned to camp.
They hadn’t encountered Colm O’Driscoll this time, but the Six-Point Cabin was one of Colm’s key hideouts, and losing it was a major blow to the O’Driscoll Gang.

Arthur greeted Davey briefly before heading over to Dutch to report.
After finishing, he asked, “Dutch, have you found a buyer for those bonds we took?”

Arthur was still hung up on the bond issue, maybe hoping to prove to Davey that Dutch’s call had been the right one.
But Dutch’s answer left him a bit disappointed. “Not yet, but Hosea’s working on it.”

Arthur fell silent for a moment, then asked, “So when are we heading west?”
Dutch replied, “Soon, maybe… I don’t know.”

There was a trace of melancholy on Dutch’s face as he walked over and sat down.
“It feels like… the times have changed. The whole world has changed.”

Unlike in the game of Davey’s past life, Dutch and the others didn’t just sit around camp all day. They often went out—to gather intel, have a drink, or make deals.
Recently, Dutch and Hosea had been busy looking for someone rich enough to buy those bonds.

But bonds worth tens of thousands of dollars weren’t something you could sell easily—and everything Davey had said about the Pinkertons was now coming true.
As Dutch spoke, he realized deep down that he already regretted robbing that train.

Arthur didn’t say it outright, just glanced toward Davey before muttering, “People like us… the world doesn’t need us anymore. Now we’re the ones being hunted.”
Dutch replied, “We’re not like them. We’re smarter. Only the weakest fools serve the government.”

It was half a reassurance to Arthur and half to himself.
Arthur chuckled. “Let’s hope so, Dutch.”

Just then, Lenny came charging into camp on horseback, shouting,
“They caught Micah Bell!”

His voice drew everyone’s attention. Even though Davey already knew what was going on, he walked over too.

“What happened, Lenny?”
Dutch stepped forward to ask.

“They caught Micah Bell! He was arrested for killing someone—back in Strawberry… he…” Lenny was flustered, stumbling over his words.

Dutch put a hand on his shoulder. “Lenny, my boy, calm down. It’s alright. Take a breath.”
Lenny inhaled deeply, finally steadying himself.

“They almost hanged me, Dutch! They’ve got Micah locked up in the Strawberry jail. They’re saying he’s going to hang.”

Before Dutch could respond, Arthur nodded slightly. “Let’s hope so.”
Dutch shot him a reproachful look. “Arthur.”

Arthur didn’t back down. “What? That fool brought it on himself. You know how I feel about him, Dutch.”

Dutch said, “You’re only looking at his rough exterior—you don’t see his heart. He’s a good man.”
Arthur scoffed. “No. I’m not saving that idiot.”

Dutch pleaded, “I can’t go. My face is posted all over West Elizabeth. I’m asking you, Arthur—if it were you, he’d go for you.”
Arthur hesitated at the word “asking.” “I doubt he would… but fine. Even if I say yes, you really expect me to go alone?”

Dutch turned toward Davey and Mac. “Davey, Mac!”

Davey threw up his hands. “Dutch, you’ve lost your damn mind. I’d rather put a bullet in that rat, and now you want me to save him?”

Dutch replied, “Listen, Davey. I know you’ve got your issues with Micah Bell, but what happened in Blackwater wasn’t his fault.”
“I’ll admit robbing that train was reckless, but Micah’s one of us now. He was out gathering intel for the gang when he got caught.”

Davey hadn’t expected Dutch to admit fault for the train job—not even a little. That wasn’t like him.

In truth, Dutch was still a capable leader. With time to reflect—and after failing to sell the bonds—he had started to see things more clearly.
Davey’s growing distance had something to do with it too. Everyone could see that Davey had lost faith in him, and Dutch didn’t want the gang to fall apart.
He wasn’t yet the raving madman he would become.

After a moment’s thought, Davey said, “Fine. For Arthur’s sake.”

He was planning to head to Strawberry anyway—not only because of the general store owner’s moonshine sideline but also because of his friendship with Arthur.
The Callander brothers had always gotten along well with him—or rather, Arthur was well liked by almost everyone in the gang.
He had helped Davey plenty of times, even before the man inside him had changed.
Maybe it was the original bond, or maybe just Davey’s lingering fondness for Arthur from the game.

Of course, Davey would never admit that he also intended to use this opportunity to weaken Strawberry’s police presence and pave the way for his future plans there.

As for Micah Bell—this wasn’t the time to kill him.
His role was to push Dutch toward madness, to set the stage for the Van der Linde Gang’s collapse.

Without Micah, Davey honestly wasn’t sure he’d be able to draw anyone away from the gang—including Arthur.
A Van der Linde Gang that was too united wasn’t part of Davey’s plan.

Chapter Text

“Davey, thank you.”

Arthur walked over, his expression conflicted.
He knew Davey hated Micah Bell more than anyone. He despised the man himself, but Davey was the one who had once pulled his gun intending to kill him.
If Davey had agreed to rescue Micah, it was entirely for Arthur’s sake.

“Don’t mention it, Arthur. You’ve saved my life before too.”

Davey gave Arthur a light punch in the chest—an unspoken gesture of brotherhood between men.
The Callander brothers had always been part of the gang’s core strength, Arthur among them. Over the past eight years, they’d pulled off countless heists together.
Arthur and the Callanders had always gotten along well, except for some ideological clashes back in Colter Village because of Dutch.

“Anyway, thanks, Davey. With you Callanders around, the business in Strawberry won’t be such a mess.” Arthur’s voice carried genuine gratitude.
Davey just nodded silently.

Nearby, Lenny was still visibly shaken, probably from the chaos in Strawberry Town.

“Arthur, take Lenny into town—to Valentine, not Strawberry. Get the kid drunk,” Dutch called out.
After all, for men, there’s little a good drink can’t fix.

Arthur turned toward Davey and Mac. “Davey, Mac, come with us. It’s been too long since we had a drink together.”

Before Davey could respond, Mac was already on his feet.
“Hell yeah, Arthur. I’ve been dying of boredom here.”

Mac was the picture of a classic Western outlaw—when he wasn’t robbing, he was drinking, bathing, or chasing hot coffee and women.

“Alright then, let’s ride.”

Davey mounted his horse, and the four of them headed for Valentine.

...

On the road, Arthur rode alongside Davey.
“Davey, maybe you were right. We’ve been at Horseshoe Overlook for ages, and those bonds still haven’t sold. To us now, they’re just worthless paper.”

“I asked Hosea about it. They’re trying to drive the price down—bonds worth tens of thousands, and they’ll only pay a few thousand. Damn those greedy bastards.”

After everything, Arthur was beginning to realize Davey had been right all along.

“Arthur, Eastern civilization is merging with the West. Merchants, tycoons, and rich men are pouring in to invest.
Railroads are being laid everywhere, and soon this wild land will belong to civilization.

“The United States is a nation ruled by law. When wealth spreads westward, they’ll send more men, more power, to keep order here.
It won’t be long before you see it—the old ways won’t fit the new age anymore. The ship of progress can’t carry the weight of the past. It’s time to change.”

Davey’s voice was calm and heavy, his words meant as a quiet persuasion—even though he knew Arthur wouldn’t listen yet.

Arthur stayed silent for a while. After they crested a hill, he finally said, “Maybe you’re right, Davey. But we’re fugitives—wanted killers. The gates of this new world are closed to men like us. I don’t have a choice.”

Davey shook his head. “You do, Arthur. We all do. The new world isn’t just black and white—it’s gray.
You’re my brother, Arthur. I wouldn’t lie to you. I’m already walking that path myself.
You may not agree with me now, but time will make it clear.”

Arthur thought for a long time but couldn’t quite grasp Davey’s meaning. Maybe it was his deep-rooted resistance—as a man of the old world, he hated everything the new one represented.
He longed to stay in the West, to keep living the only kind of life he’d ever known.

“Maybe you’re right, Davey. But when we reach Valentine, I say we start with a drink.”

Arthur was clearly dodging the subject, and Davey didn’t push him.
Beliefs built over decades don’t crumble after a few words.

Even in the story he remembered, Arthur’s redemption had only come once he knew death was near.
This Arthur was still far from that—he was just a man with a conscience and a line he wouldn’t cross.

...

By nightfall, the Valentine saloon was bursting with life.
Arthur and Mac walked in side by side, heading straight for the bar to order drinks, while Lenny followed closely behind Davey.

“Mr. Callander.”

The bartender’s neutral expression turned instantly respectful when he saw Davey.
Saloons were the heart of gossip, and the bartender had certainly heard about what had gone down in Valentine—about the man who’d killed an O’Driscoll and earned the town sheriff’s favor.
A man like that commanded respect.

The single “Mr. Callander” was enough to turn a few heads in the saloon, with more than one curious gaze landing on Davey.

“Oh, Davey, looks like you’ve been doing pretty well here,” Arthur said with a grin.
He didn’t think much of it, assuming it was because Davey was a regular customer.
He’d heard rumors too—that Davey had robbed a rich man not long ago and walked away with a fortune.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Davey wasn’t one for heavy drinking—that had been the old Davey’s vice—but he still ordered a glass of whiskey.

After the Six-Point Cabin job, Arthur had earned five hundred dollars. Even if he’d handed over half, he’d still have more than two hundred left.
But Davey suspected Arthur hadn’t handed in a cent.

Generous as ever, Arthur declared that tonight’s drinks were on him.
He pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and the whiskey flowed freely, one glass after another.

Mac, of course, drank whatever was put in front of him, while poor Lenny—still shaken from what happened in Strawberry—started drinking along too.

“Mr. Callander, Mr. Graf would like to speak with you.”

The voice came from a police officer Davey recognized—one who’d attended his banquet—but the man wasn’t in uniform this time.
The “Mr. Graf” he mentioned was none other than the deputy sheriff.

Davey glanced at Arthur, Lenny, and Mac, who were all deep into their drinks, then nodded slightly.
Following the officer, he slipped out through the saloon’s back door.

Before long, they stopped in front of a two-story house.
As soon as Davey approached, Deputy Sheriff Graf stepped outside to greet him.

“Mr. Callander, my apologies for disturbing you,” Graf said, looking a bit uneasy. “Donal asked me to arrange this meeting. He wishes to speak with you.”

Davey frowned. “Donal? The one from the O’Driscoll Gang? The man who once threatened Mr. Calloway’s people? Mr. Graf, do you realize what you’re saying?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Or are there O’Driscolls hiding in that house right now, waiting to ambush me?”

Davey made no move to go inside—he wasn’t about to walk into a trap.

Graf shook his head. “Mr. Callander, Donal came alone. He just wants to talk.”

Davey replied coolly, “If he wants to talk, he can come out. We’ll speak elsewhere.”

Graf nodded and went back inside. A moment later, he returned with a man following behind.

Unlike most gang members, Donal didn’t look rough or mean. He wore a suit and tie—though anyone who could write threatening letters was hardly an innocent man.

“Mr. Callander, this is Mr. Donal,” Graf said with a brief introduction. Then he turned to Donal. “I’ve done as you asked. What happens next is between you two.”

It was obvious Donal had something on Graf—some leverage that made the deputy do his bidding.
Davey, however, couldn’t have cared less.

Graf gave Davey a polite nod and left the two men alone.

“My apologies, Mr. Callander,” Donal began. “That misunderstanding earlier was my fault.”
“Let’s move somewhere private—perhaps your place, Mr. Callander?” he suggested politely. Donal hadn’t expected Davey to be so cautious—it wasn’t the behavior of a typical cowboy.

“No need,” Davey said. “We’ll walk and talk.”

He glanced sideways. “I have to admit, I’m curious. You know I’m with the Van der Linde Gang, and you’re an O’Driscoll. Aren’t you afraid I’ll just shoot you where you stand?”

As they walked, Donal kept a respectful distance beside him.

“Mr. Callander,” he said, “I may be part of the O’Driscoll Gang, but not everyone in it is loyal to Colm.”
“Most of us just use the gang’s name to do business. We pay a cut to Colm to stay out of trouble, but we’re not bound to him.”

Davey smirked. “So, Donal, are you saying you want to switch sides? Join the Van der Linde Gang?”

“No, Mr. Callander,” Donal said quickly. “I’m not looking to defect—I’m here to propose a partnership.”
He hesitated before continuing, “Deputy Graf told me you’re setting up a moonshine operation. My trade is in pharmaceuticals. Our businesses don’t conflict.”

“If you’ll allow me to continue running my operation, I’m willing to pay you one hundred dollars a month as protection money.”

Davey raised a brow. “So you can pay Graf two hundred a month, but I only get one hundred? That about right, Mr. Donal?”

Donal’s face paled. “No, Mr. Callander, that’s not what I meant! The clinic’s medical alcohol was one of my biggest income sources. We don’t make moonshine ourselves—but we sell alcohol to those who do.”
“Now that all the medical alcohol goes to you, our profits have dropped sharply. A hundred dollars a month is truly the best I can offer.”

Davey gave a small nod. He didn’t doubt the man’s words—he’d seen plenty of entries for medical alcohol in the ledgers he’d reviewed earlier.

“What makes you think I’d agree to this partnership?” Davey asked curiously.

Donal paused, then said, “Because the light of civilization from the East is spreading westward. The old, brutal ways won’t survive much longer.”
“The Van der Linde Gang and the O’Driscolls have been enemies for years, but neither deals in business.”
“Mr. Callander, though you’re part of the Van der Linde Gang, you’ve already started running a real enterprise—moonshine.”

Chapter Text

Donal felt that he and Davey were the same kind of man.
A new era was coming, and the brutal lifestyle of the gangs would soon be crushed. Only those who chose to change had a chance to survive.

“Are you not afraid of Colm’s revenge for working with me?”

By now, their cooperation was more or less decided.
Though Davey had the support of the police, he lacked manpower—he didn’t even have a few reliable hands to run errands.
Tasks like converting the cellar into a moonshine distillery still required him, Mac, and John to handle personally.

Donal’s arrival could perfectly solve that problem, especially with the upcoming moonshine distribution, which would demand a lot of workers.

“Colm probably has no time to think about revenge. His Six Point Cabin suffered a devastating blow—many of his core men were wiped out there.”
“Say what you will about Colm’s reputation, but when it comes to fighting power, he’s no match for the Van der Linde Gang.”
“They say just a handful of men took out everyone at Six Point Cabin.”

Donal gave a bitter smile. He’d been hesitant before, but after hearing about what happened at Six Point Cabin, he’d gone straight to Deputy Sheriff Graf, eager to pledge himself to Davey.
The Van der Linde Gang’s strength was beyond belief. He’d even learned that the Callander brothers hadn’t taken part in that job—they’d already left Valentine by then.

Donal knew more than the Valentine Police Department did. He knew the Callander brothers were the Van der Linde Gang’s main fighting force.
In the past, Colm had suffered heavy losses because of those two.
Now, even without them, the Van der Linde Gang had wiped out Six Point Cabin with ease. That thought alone terrified Donal.

Compared to the O’Driscolls, the Van der Linde Gang were the true outlaws of the West.
In the days of the Old West, a single sharpshooter could form the backbone of a gang—and the Van der Linde Gang had several of them.

“You’ve made the right choice, Mr. Donal.”
“But I’m not much interested in the medicine business. You can keep running it for now. I’ll speak to Doctor Ben Calloway, but remember to show him respect and give him his proper share.”
“As for that hundred dollars, keep it. You know I’m not short on cash.”
“Once my moonshine business starts rolling, you’ll see just how pitiful the profits from smuggling medicine really are.”

Davey spoke calmly.

Donal immediately understood what he meant.
This wasn’t a partnership—Davey wanted him to work under him.
Of course, Donal had no reason to refuse. Even if they called it cooperation, it was still submission in essence.

“Yes... Boss, Donal will follow your orders.”

Donal was quick to adapt. Since he’d already chosen to take Davey’s side, he knew to adjust his attitude accordingly.
Not only did Davey have the police on his side, but he was also a renowned sharpshooter.

“No need to call me Boss. Just call me Mr. Callander.”
“Alright, Donal. Tell me about your situation in Valentine.”

Hearing Davey’s words, Donal bowed slightly. “Yes, Mr. Callander.”

The two continued their talk, and Davey soon had a clear picture of Donal’s circumstances.
Donal commanded seventeen men, supposedly members of the O’Driscoll Gang, but in truth, they were just small-time thugs—not even one real gunman among them.
The few men Mac had killed in the clinic’s secret room had been most of Donal’s fighting force.

The reason Donal had managed to collaborate with the Deputy Sheriff was that he knew Graf’s secret.
Deputy Sheriff Graf had once been a criminal himself, later turning to Sheriff Malloy to clear his record.
Such cases weren’t rare in the West. Many deputies under the sheriffs had similar pasts.

When Eastern civilization reached the West, the severe shortage of lawmen created opportunities. Many former criminals—and even bounty hunters—joined federal service.
That was why Dutch had always spoken with disdain at camp for those who served the United States.

Though Deputy Sheriff Graf had been “cleansed,” he’d once offended a powerful man. If Donal revealed his past to that person, not even his badge would save him.

After understanding Donal’s situation, Donal invited Davey to his base—a two-story house north of Valentine.
Five of Donal’s closest men lived there.

When they saw Davey arrive, their reactions were a mix of fear and excitement.
They feared his strength but were thrilled that they wouldn’t have to leave Valentine.

If Davey had refused Donal’s allegiance, Donal would’ve lost his business and been forced to leave town.
His men would naturally have had to leave with him.

The fact that Davey had killed some of their comrades didn’t matter much. Among gang members, loyalty rarely ran deep.
Now that Donal had bowed his head, they had no reason to resist.

Besides, following a sharpshooter was something to be proud of.
They all knew about the Valentine Police Department’s banquet—and envied those who’d been there.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

While Davey was taking over Donal’s territory, quite a commotion broke out at the Valentine Saloon.
Drunk Arthur had gotten into a fight with other patrons, and things quickly turned into a full-on brawl.
In the original game’s story, Arthur was the only one who started throwing punches—but this time, with Mac joining in, the situation blew up even worse.

Valentine’s officers soon arrived and detained Arthur, Mac, and Lenny.
They hadn’t managed to escape because Arthur had drunk far too much.
He and Mac had been competing in a drinking contest and had downed five bottles of whiskey between them.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake... isn’t this guy one of Mr. Callander’s?” Deputy Sheriff Graf muttered, visibly exasperated.

The three drunken men were brought to the station, and Mac was recognized right away.
They’d been taken in simply because the police had to maintain the appearance of law and order—they couldn’t just ignore the fight.

The officer in charge sighed. “They were completely drunk. The bartender called it in, and the guy they beat up too... We had no choice but to bring them all here.”

Arthur, sprawled on the floor of the station, kept shouting incoherently: “Never... I’ll never... hic... let you take me alive... never...!”

Mac squinted at the officers through bleary eyes, feeling like he might’ve seen them before, but couldn’t quite place them. “Shut up... come on... drink... cheers...”
He then tried to grab one of the officers to clink glasses, leaving the poor man both amused and helpless.

Lenny, on the other hand, was mostly sober. At the bar, it had been Arthur and Mac doing most of the drinking, while he’d had only a few glasses.
The moment they were arrested, half his buzz vanished.
After everything that had happened in Strawberry, the sight of a police station felt like a nightmare.
He was trembling uncontrollably, terrified of what might happen next.

Deputy Sheriff Graf rubbed his forehead. “These guys... such a pain when they’re drunk. Mr. Callander’s got business elsewhere.”
“I remember he booked a room at the Helton Inn. You lot, take these fellas there.”

He turned to Lenny. “Hey, kid, can you walk on your own?”
Lenny nodded nervously. “Y-yes, sir... I can, officer.”
Graf nodded. “Good. Then walk. As for the guy who called this in, looks like he’s been drinking too. He started the fight and then called the law. Throw him in a cell to sober up.”

Lenny could only stare blankly as the officers ignored the protest of the man who’d made the call and dragged him off to the jail cell.
Four officers supported Arthur and Mac as they escorted them out.

“Move it, kid. Don’t tell me you’d rather have a drink in the station?” Deputy Sheriff Graf said with a laugh.
The other officers joined in, chuckling as they walked.

Lenny followed behind in a daze until they reached the Helton Inn.
“These are Mr. Callander’s friends. Give them a room,” one of the officers said, greeting the Inn staff like an old acquaintance.

“Of course, officer—but I’ll need a hand carrying them upstairs. No way I can lift these two,” the clerk replied with a grin.
Mr. Callander was a valued customer at the Helton, and naturally, his friends would receive the same courtesy.

Lenny trailed after them up the stairs to a double room.
“Hey, kid, they’re your problem now,” one officer said before leaving.

Lenny nodded blankly, still not understanding what was happening.
Why had the police arrested the guy who’d called them, and then escorted them—the fighters—to a Inn?

Mr. Callander...
Was that Davey?
Why were the police so respectful toward him?

He couldn’t make sense of it. His thoughts were a blur. Exhausted and half-drunk, Lenny soon drifted into a confused sleep.

...

At Donal’s base, an officer soon arrived to inform Davey of the incident.
“Sorry to trouble you, sir. You know how it goes—drunks always find a way to stir up trouble.”

As Davey spoke, he casually slipped a five-dollar bill into the officer’s hand.
The officer thought back to the recent banquet and almost refused, but his hand acted faster than his conscience, pocketing the cash.
For an ordinary officer, five dollars wasn’t a small amount—especially for simply delivering a message.

The gesture impressed Donal’s men, who saw firsthand Davey’s generosity and his influence with the police.
They’d worked with lawmen before, but never had officers treated them this kindly.

“Mr. Callander, your room’s ready. Would you like to...” Donal said respectfully beside him.

Since Davey had no proper base in Valentine and had been staying at inns, Donal declared that this base would now belong to Mr. Callander.
The two-story house had six rooms—three on each floor. Donal had vacated the entire second floor for Davey’s private use, while he and the others stayed on the first floor.

Donal took the master bedroom downstairs, and the other five members shared the remaining two rooms.
Davey was thoroughly satisfied with the arrangement.
The upstairs master bedroom was large and had its own balcony.
From there, one could overlook the streets of Valentine.

The house might not have belonged to him, but for now, Davey was clearly its master.
And sleeping in a proper bed was far better than a tent or an inn cot.

Chapter Text

Helton Inn.

Sunlight spilled across Arthur’s face, and he turned over with a groan.
A moment later, his eyes snapped open.
Fragments of yesterday flickered through his foggy mind.
But as he looked around, he realized he was in a surprisingly upscale room.

Where... was he?

His head throbbed. The last thing he remembered was being arrested by the police and taken to the station.
So why wasn’t he in a jail cell?

“Hey, Mac, Lenny—wake up.”

Seeing Lenny and Mac beside him, Arthur let out a breath of relief. At least everyone was still there.
He vaguely remembered Davey leaving after just a couple of drinks.

“Oh, Arthur, what are you doing? Can’t a man get some damn sleep?” Mac mumbled, sitting up slowly.
Lenny stirred awake as well.

“Mac, Lenny—how the hell did we end up here? Last I remember, we got hauled off to the station,” Arthur said.

Lenny nodded. “Yeah, Arthur. Last night you and Mac started a fight, and the guy you beat up reported it. The cops showed up and took us in.”
“But then this deputy showed up—he didn’t lock us up. Instead, he arrested the guy who filed the report.”
“In the end, the officers carried you two here and dropped us off at this inn.”

Arthur frowned. “Lenny, what the hell are you talking about? You still drunk? Since when do the police deliver us to a damn inn?”

Lenny gave a helpless shrug. “I know how it sounds, Arthur, but it’s true. I don’t know why that deputy helped us, but he did.”

Even with Lenny’s insistence, Arthur still found it hard to believe.
“That... that makes no sense. They didn’t throw us in jail, but they locked up the guy who reported us?”
Arthur felt like his entire understanding of the world had just been turned upside down.

Mac, who had been trying to go back to sleep, finally gave up and muttered,
“What’s the big deal? Davey’s working with the police now. Every officer in that station’s his friend.”
“For Davey’s sake, as long as you don’t kill anyone in Valentine—hell, maybe even if you do—they won’t throw you in jail.”

Lenny blinked, realization dawning. “No wonder... Yesterday, they kept saying ‘Mr. Callander.’ That must’ve been Davey.”

Arthur rubbed his temples. “What the hell’s going on, Mac? What’s Davey been up to?”

Mac hesitated for a moment, unsure whether he should tell Arthur.
But then he remembered—Davey had agreed to go with Arthur to Strawberry Town to rescue that rat. Telling him wouldn’t hurt.

“Arthur, you know how Davey feels about Dutch. He thinks sticking with him won’t end well.”
“Davey’s been trying to start his own business here in Valentine.”
“He’s already found a moonshiner and set up a distillery. He’s getting into the moonshine trade.”
“I don’t know all the details, but somehow, he’s working with the police. Sheriff Malloy’s his friend now.”
“Oh, and he wiped out the O’Driscoll Gang’s base here in Valentine.”
“The other night, Davey invited the entire police department to dinner at the fancy Wells Restaurant. After that, he was friends with every single officer.”
“Basically, Davey’s a big shot in Valentine now.”
“Oh, and John knows about it too—he was with us when it all went down.”

Arthur was stunned. Then a thought hit him.
“So that fake medicine seller Davey had me arrest—the one I locked up in Limpany?”

Mac nodded. “Yeah. That guy, Benedict. He’s the one brewing moonshine for Davey now.”
“It’s not ready yet, though. Davey says he wants to make the best damn moonshine in the state.”

Arthur sat there, speechless.
Lenny’s jaw hung open the entire time, unable to process what he was hearing.

“Oh, my God... how long has it even been? Davey’s already become a big name in Valentine? But wasn’t there a bounty on him?”
“Why would the police even work with him?” Arthur asked, still in disbelief.

Mac spread his hands. “Davey went to the post office, paid off a huge sum, and got the bounty hunters’ guild to lift the warrant.”
“He said the West Elizabeth bounty doesn’t carry over into New Hanover. As long as no one points him out, he’s fine.”
“Even if someone does, the Valentine cops would probably just arrest the snitch.”

Arthur frowned. “And what about the Pinkerton Detective Agency? Aren’t they still after him?”

Mac shrugged. “Beats me. But Davey told me not to worry about the Pinkertons. Maybe he’s already figured out a way to deal with them.”
“Either way, we haven’t seen a single Pinkerton around Valentine. Nobody’s bothered us.”

Arthur sat in silence for a long while, unable to take it all in.
They’d only been at Horseshoe Overlook for a few weeks—barely a month—and somehow Davey had transformed completely.

It seemed that the life of freedom every gang member dreamed of, the one they all chased after for years, had somehow become real for Davey—just like that.

Arthur could hardly believe it.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Arthur had gradually come to accept Davey’s new situation—and surprisingly, he didn’t feel the slightest bit jealous.
On the contrary, he was genuinely happy for him.

Still, he had countless questions he wanted to ask.
How had Davey managed all this?
If his plan really worked, could every member of the gang find a life of freedom here?
And most of all—why hadn’t the Pinkerton Detective Agency come after him?

Mac didn’t bother thinking that far ahead.
To him, all that mattered was that he and Davey were brothers, and life was finally good.
No more running from place to place.
Now he could drink, bathe, and enjoy a cup of hot coffee every day—and that was enough for him.
As for everything else? Oh, that was Davey’s problem.

Lenny wasn’t particularly sharp, but even he could tell Davey had become someone important—important enough that even the sheriff counted him as a friend.
Even if they broke the law now, the police wouldn’t dare touch them.
It was just... too damn cool.

Knock, knock, knock!

Someone rapped on the door.
“Excuse me, are Mr. Arthur, Mr. Mac, and Mr. Lenny here?”
“Mr. Callander asked me to deliver a message. He’s waiting for you at Wells Restaurant for lunch.”

Mac called back, “Alright, tell him we got the message. We’ll head over soon.”

When the messenger left, Mac turned to Arthur.
“If there’s something you want to know, just ask Davey yourself. I don’t have the full picture either.”

Arthur nodded. “Alright, Mac. I’ll talk to him.”

...

By the time Arthur and the others arrived at Wells Restaurant, it was nearly eleven.
They’d woken up late, still groggy from the previous night’s drinking.

Inside, Davey was sitting with Donal, discussing plans for the coming days.
When he saw Arthur and the others, he waved a hand. “You can take care of the rest.”

Donal nodded. “Understood, Mr. Callander.”
He excused himself and left.

Mac approached the table. “Davey, who was that guy? Never seen him before.”

Davey chuckled. “Just an interesting business partner. You’ll get to know him soon enough.”

Then he turned to Arthur and Lenny. “You must be starving after drinking half the night away. I ordered some steaks for you—they should be out any minute.”

Mac sat beside Davey, while Arthur and Lenny took the seats across from them at the four-person table.

“Davey,” Arthur began, “Mac told me a bit about what you’ve been doing. I didn’t expect things to change this much.”
“I’ve got to ask—did the Pinkerton detectives really never come after you?”
“You know as well as I do, they’re the biggest threat we’ve got right now.”

Davey didn’t dodge the question. He leaned back slightly and began to explain.

“Arthur, the Pinkerton Detective Agency has a big reputation, but six years ago, the United States passed the Anti-Pinkerton Act. Since then, the agency lost its right to enforce the law.”
“These days, the Pinkertons are in a pretty awkward spot. It’s complicated, but you can think of them as a massive bounty hunter organization now.”
“Each state in the U.S. has its own laws, and their wanted lists aren’t connected. So while we’re wanted men in West Elizabeth, we’re not outlaws here in New Hanover.”

“So if the Pinkertons tried to arrest us in New Hanover, that’d be considered overstepping federal authority. Because of what happened years ago, every labor union in the country despises them.”
“If they crossed that line, they’d be sued by the unions—and that’d make things even worse for them than they already are.”

“But Dutch robbed Cornwall’s train, and Cornwall’s a powerful tycoon with plenty of friends in high places. He’s been pulling strings to have us declared wanted in New Hanover.”
“If he succeeds, the Pinkertons could come here legally under the excuse of ‘assisting law enforcement.’”

“Problem is, things aren’t going smoothly for him. The Blackwater ferry incident dragged in some important people, and because of that political mess, our wanted status has been put on hold.”
“Unless the Pinkertons secretly capture us and haul us back to West Elizabeth without anyone finding out…”
“They’ve got no real excuse to touch us.”

Arthur listened intently, his brow furrowed.

...

In the original story, high-ranking Pinkerton agent Andrew Milton had discovered the Van der Linde Gang’s camp location early on.
His first appearance had been near Horseshoe Overlook, by the river where Arthur went fishing with young Jack.

At that distance, with the resources they had, the Pinkertons could have easily found and surrounded the gang’s camp if they’d wanted to.
But in the story, Milton always seemed to give the gang “one more chance,” telling Arthur that if he handed over Dutch, he’d let the others go.

Of course, that was nothing but a bluff.
In truth, the Pinkertons lacked the authority to act in New Hanover. Milton could threaten them all he wanted, but without legal power, that was all it was—just talk.

“Without any real authority, the Pinkerton Detective Agency was all bark and no bite.”

Chapter Text

Arthur couldn’t fully grasp everything Davey was saying.
As he often admitted himself, he wasn’t an educated man—he’d never studied much and didn’t really understand how the United States worked.
He hadn’t even heard of the Anti-Pinkerton Act that had passed six years ago.

But there was one thing he did understand: the Pinkertons couldn’t touch them anymore.
All their old fears had been for nothing.

“So, Davey, you’re saying we don’t have to worry about the Pinkertons coming after us anymore? We’re just... safe now?”
“Even Cornwall can’t do anything about it?”

Arthur found it hard to believe. They were outlaws—men who had robbed $150,000 in Blackwater—and yet somehow, they could now live like ordinary people. It completely upended everything he thought he knew.

Davey nodded. “For now, yes. But who knows? If Cornwall manages to help the Pinkertons get law enforcement authority in New Hanover, everything could change.”
He paused briefly before continuing. “Or if Dutch keeps on with his robberies and stirs up more trouble, the New Hanover officials might have no choice but to ask the Pinkertons for help.”
“So, Arthur, do you really think Dutch is the kind of man who’ll live quietly forever?”

Arthur understood immediately.
He sighed. “It’s not just Dutch. If we stop robbing, we’ll have no money—and we can’t survive without it. So we’ve got to pull off one more big score. Enough to buy our freedom, then move on—find a new place where nobody knows us.”

It was the harsh truth. Arthur needed money, Dutch needed money, and the others needed it even more.
If not for that, who in their right mind would choose this kind of life?
At the end of the day, it all came down to survival.

“Davey, listen. You’re already a big shot in Valentine. Mac told me you’re about to start your own business.”
“You and Mac shouldn’t come to Strawberry Town this time.”
“It could get you caught up in something you don’t need.”

Arthur had always been good to the gang, especially to those he called family.
After learning about Davey’s situation, he’d chosen to go after Micah Bell alone—just to fulfill Dutch’s orders.

Davey took a sip of red wine and shook his head. “You’re my brother, Arthur. I can’t just let you face danger alone.”
“Besides, what happens in West Elizabeth has nothing to do with New Hanover. It won’t affect my business in Valentine.”

Arthur could tell Davey wasn’t going to back down, and that moved him deeply.

...

After dinner, Davey, Arthur, and Mac rode out toward Strawberry Town, while Lenny returned to camp.

On the way, Arthur began to vent his frustrations.
“You know, Davey, ever since I first met that son of a bitch Micah Bell, I’ve had a bad feeling about him.”
“Hosea feels the same way, but for some reason, Dutch trusts that guy completely.”
“If only Susan had just shot him dead back in Colter Village, he wouldn’t have caused us half this trouble.”
“Lately, though, I think Dutch’s mind is coming back to him. He’s starting to seem like his old self again—the leader who once gave us hope for a better life.”
“I just don’t know if saving Micah this time will drag him right back down again.”
“I swear, I don’t want to save that fool, that damn rat—but Davey, you know me. I can’t turn down Dutch.”
“We were supposed to head to California, remember? But somehow Dutch and Hosea brought us to Blackwater instead.”
“If we’d gone west, maybe things would’ve turned out differently. Maybe we’d have bought some land... planted a few trees... mangoes or something.”

Living in darkness but yearning for light—that was Arthur in a nutshell.

He had joined the Van der Linde Gang at just fourteen. Now, at thirty-six, he’d spent twenty-two years living off robbery, murder, and theft.
He longed for a free, peaceful life, though even he wasn’t sure if he’d know how to live it.
Still, every man needed something to hope for.

“Arthur,” Davey said, “don’t overthink it. You don’t have to plant mangoes.”
“I remember your sketches—they’re really good. When things finally settle down, maybe you could open an art class, become an art teacher.”
“Oh, and that John guy—he learned under Dutch same as you, but his drawings are god-awful. Hard to even look at.”

Hearing Davey bring up John, Arthur couldn’t help but smile.
He and John had both been taken in by Dutch as kids, raised and taught under his wing.
They were as close as brothers could be.

“John, huh? That guy’s been completely tamed by Abigail now—not the man he used to be.”
“But Abigail likes the quiet life. Honestly, that might be for the best.”

Arthur looked ahead at the road stretching out before them.
“Davey,” he said quietly, “are you ready to leave?”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Arthur knew perfectly well that Davey could no longer remain with the Van der Linde Gang.
Though it pained him a little, he was genuinely happy for Davey—after all, Davey had finally achieved the life he’d always dreamed of.
At least now, he didn’t have to keep running.

“I don’t know yet, Arthur. Mac and I have been with the gang for eight years. It’s hard to just walk away like that.”
“If... if Dutch stops doing anything foolish, then I won’t quit.”
“Think of this as leaving a way out for everyone. If one day someone can’t take it anymore—or just doesn’t want to live on the run—then come to Valentine. My door will always be open.”

Davey’s words stirred something in Arthur.
He knew that if Dutch ever stopped stirring up trouble, he wouldn’t really be Dutch anymore.
Still, Arthur found comfort in knowing that there was finally a way out—at least for some of them.

After seeing Davey’s growing influence in Valentine, Arthur believed it wouldn’t be long before Davey could truly protect them if things ever went south.
“We’ll always be brothers, Davey. Even after you leave the gang... if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“And if you can, try not to tell Dutch too soon. You know how he is—it might just push him further over the edge.”
“I bet Hosea would be happy to hear about all this. He’s always wanted everyone to have a proper way out, not just an endless life on the run.”

Arthur’s feelings toward Dutch were those of a son toward a father. Even at the very end, he’d never really left the gang.
“Of course, Arthur. We’ll always be brothers—past, present, and future.”

Davey had a natural fondness for Arthur—perhaps because of who he’d once been, or perhaps because of memories from a past life.
Even without emotion involved, a healthy Arthur, free from tuberculosis, would one day become the finest sharpshooter in the West.
In small-scale fights, no one could match him.

Davey was different. Though he, too, ranked among the West’s sharpshooters, he didn’t yet know his own limits.
To reach Arthur’s future level of strength required countless brushes with death—only by surviving again and again could one grow that quickly.
But Davey wasn’t walking that same path. In this new era that was beginning to dawn, no matter how powerful one man was, he couldn’t stand against the tide of steel and industry.
Only by grasping the greater currents could one rise above them—to stand at the crest of the wave and ride the new age forward.

The Van der Linde Gang was merely the last, fading light of the Western outlaw era at its peak.

Arthur dared to ride into Strawberry Town alone to rescue Micah Bell not only because of his courage and skill, but also because the town’s law enforcement was weak.
Smaller than Valentine, Strawberry had only about a dozen officers in total.

As the three men neared Strawberry, they slowed their pace.
“Davey, maybe we should have a plan,” Arthur said after a moment.
He didn’t have any ideas himself, so he wanted to hear what Davey thought.
Maybe they should scout the town first.

Davey smiled. “Don’t worry, Arthur. I’ve got a plan. Just follow my lead when the time comes.”

Arthur wasn’t one for strategy, and hearing that Davey had things under control put him at ease.
He trusted Davey’s plans the same way he used to trust Dutch’s.
In Davey, he saw the same fire he once saw in Dutch—the ambition, the confidence, and that sharp gleam of intelligence in his eyes.

They had left Valentine at noon, pushing their horses hard all the way to Strawberry. By the time they arrived, night had already fallen.
The small town lay quiet under the evening sky.
The three men rode slowly down the main street.

The sheriff’s office stood out clearly at the central crossroads—though, of course, the real Strawberry had more than just a handful of buildings.
“Let’s check the sheriff’s office first. That rat should be locked up in the jail out back.”
“I’ll talk to the sheriff. Maybe we can sort this out without drawing our guns.”

Arthur and Mac had no objections and followed Davey inside.
After tying up their horses, the three stepped through the door.

“Evenin’, folks. What can I do for you?”
The deputy on duty greeted them as they entered.

Davey nodded. “Officer, I’ve got some business to discuss with your sheriff.”
The deputy didn’t think much of it and stood up. “Sure thing. Follow me—the sheriff’s in his office out back.”

Inside the sheriff’s office, the walls were lined with wanted posters.
Dutch’s poster was displayed in the most prominent spot, offering a $500 bounty.
Among posters offering only ten or twenty dollars, that number really stood out.

But aside from Dutch, none of the other gang members had posters of their own.
That was how things worked in the West—there were so many gangs that the law usually only put up notices for their leaders.
The Van der Linde Gang was small, after all. Other gangs numbered in the hundreds; if the law posted all their faces, every inch of the station would be covered.

Chapter Text

“Sheriff Hanley, there’s a gentleman here who’d like to speak with you.”
“Oh, have him come in.”

Davey pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Sheriff Hanley sat by the kerosene lamp, a cigar in his mouth, reading the paper. When he saw Davey he set the paper down and smiled. “Well now, sir, you look familiar. What can I do for you?”

How could he not be familiar? After all, he was a wanted man from Blackwater. Even if no posters hung in Strawberry, the sheriff would still have Davey’s file.

“Davey Callander. Sheriff Hanley should recognize the name.”
Davey spoke his real name without hesitation. In a town this small he had little to fear.

Sheriff Hanley paused, then snapped to attention. His voice turned cold. “Fuck — a wanted man from Blackwater. Who gave you the nerve to stand right in front of me?”
He spoke harshly but quietly, and made no move to reach for his gun.

Having looked into the Van der Linde Gang, Sheriff Hanley knew this was a dangerous criminal who’d taken many lives. More importantly, he didn’t believe he could control the situation in this cramped office. This wasn’t a game — people thought about their own safety first.

“Sheriff Hanley, please calm down. I’m here to talk business, not cause trouble. Sheriff Malloy from Valentine sends his regards.”
Davey kept his tone steady.

At Malloy’s name Hanley’s expression softened a little. “I warn you, Davey, don’t try to stir up big trouble in Strawberry. If you know what’s good for you, leave now. I don’t want to be working with a wanted man.”

Hanley drew on his cigar and leaned back, as if not wanting to deal with Davey further.

Davey only smiled, reached into his pocket, and laid five one-hundred-dollar bills on the desk. $500 in cash.

“Sheriff, consider this a small token of my sincerity. If you talk with Sheriff Malloy you’ll learn I’m running a moonshine business. If you cooperate, I’ll pay you $300 a month.”
“The same for Sheriff Malloy.”
“Of course that’s just the start. Once the business grows, I’ll pay more.”

Hanley stared at the $500, his eyes lighting up. That was nearly a year’s pay. His opposition to Davey melted when he saw the money.

In this country, dollars solved most problems. If dollars didn’t, then you simply didn’t have enough. This was a world run by capital — not even presidents got far without campaign funds. Out here in the West, being blunt often worked best.

Whether $500 upfront or $300 a month after, it was an offer Hanley couldn’t refuse. The cigar on his breath and the faint sour tang of alcohol Davey had noticed when he entered told him the sheriff wasn’t exactly incorruptible.

After a brief hesitation, Hanley pocketed the cash.

“Oh, Mr. Davey — you know Strawberry’s a dry town. This puts me in a bind.”
By now Hanley’s face was all smiles. He was already looking to haggle.

Davey shook his head. “Sheriff Hanley, this is just the initial sum. My operation isn’t up and running yet; once it is, there’ll be more.”
“Besides, Sheriff Malloy gets the same rate — it’s uniform, keeps things from getting messy.”
“And, Sheriff Hanley, you may call me Mr. Callander.”

Hanley could see there wasn’t much room left to bargain. “Very well, Mr. Callander. I think our partnership will be most agreeable.”
“With prohibition here, there are no saloons. Your business could do very well.”

Davey nodded. “Exactly. I saw the opportunity. There’s one more small favor I need, Sheriff.”
“There’s a friend of mine locked up in your jail. If possible, I’d like to take him out tonight.”

Having already pocketed the $500, Hanley had little reason to refuse. He unhooked the jail keys from his belt.

“I’ll take the deputies out to check around. You have thirty minutes, Mr. Callander.”
“Ah — tomorrow the papers’ll have a field day about a jailbreak.”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Strawberry Town Police Station.

The door to the sheriff’s office swung open as Davey and Sheriff Hanley stepped out, chatting and laughing.
Once they reached the lobby, Sheriff Hanley called out, “Boys, we’ve got work to do. Seems a bit restless outside.”
“Luke, you stay on duty. Everyone else, come with me.”

Hanley walked over to Officer Luke, patted his shoulder, and gave him a meaningful look.
Luke, clearly the sheriff’s trusted man, understood immediately.
The other officers seemed to catch on as well.

In no time, the once-busy station emptied out completely.

“Oh, gentlemen, I’m going to step outside for a smoke. You can wait here a bit,” Luke said casually before walking out and closing the front door behind him.

“Davey, what’s going on?” Arthur asked, still confused.
Mac, who clearly knew Davey’s tricks, clapped Arthur on the shoulder. “What do you think, Arthur? Our brother Davey already has this place under control.”
“Come on—let’s go check on that rat in the jail.”

Arthur frowned. “But we don’t have the jail keys.”

Davey smirked, pulling out a jingling ring of keys from his hand before heading toward the back.

The jail was in the basement. They descended the stairs into the dimly lit dungeon, where eight cells lined the walls—only four of them occupied.
And the so-called “rat,” Micah Bell, was enjoying a private cell all to himself.

“Oh, Davey! Mac! Arthur!”
“You came to rescue me? I knew it—the gang wouldn’t abandon me!”

Micah leapt up from his cot, excitement flooding his face.
He’d been terrified that by tomorrow morning, he’d be swinging from the gallows.

Davey ignored him and lit a cigarette.
Mac spat, “You damn rat. You should’ve been left to hang on that rope.”
Arthur snorted. “Hey there, partner. Looks like you’ve been living pretty comfortably in here, huh?”

Micah glanced between Davey—who wouldn’t even look at him—and Mac, whose face was full of disgust. He realized his only chance rested with Arthur.
“Arthur, you’re here to save me, right?”
Arthur replied coolly, “Oh, I haven’t decided yet.”
Micah’s face tightened. “Arthur, you’re joking, right?”
Arthur took his time with the answer. “For the past six months, you’ve been driving me crazy. Now I finally get the chance to shut you up for good. Don’t you think that’s something worth celebrating?”

Micah was smart enough to read the room. He knew Arthur was his only hope—and that the Callander brothers beside him would’ve gladly beaten him to death if given the chance.
“Arthur, you know I’ve always respected you,” Micah said, his voice trembling with desperation.

Arthur sighed. He knew it was time to end this. Rescuing Micah was Dutch’s order, after all.
“Davey,” Arthur called out.

Davey tossed him the keys.
There were eight in total. On the third try, the lock clicked, and the cell door creaked open.

“Oh, unbelievable! I’m actually getting out of here alive!” Micah stumbled out, his face full of relief—then confusion.
“Arthur, how’d you pull this off? I didn’t hear any gunfire.”

Davey took the keys back from Arthur. “Enough talk, you rat. Time to get moving.”

He turned and led the way out, with Mac and Arthur following. Micah trailed nervously behind.

The station was still empty. When they opened the front door, they found Officer Luke outside, puffing on his cigarette.
“Oh, gentlemen, finished already?” he said with a smile.

Davey nodded, handed him the keys, and slipped a ten-dollar bill into his hand.
“Thanks, Officer Luke. Give my regards to Sheriff Hanley. We’ll be on our way,” Davey said with an easy grin.

Luke’s eyes lit up—an unexpected ten-dollar tip wasn’t something to frown at.
“Of course, sir. I’ll be sure to tell the sheriff. Safe travels, gentlemen.”

Micah lingered near Arthur’s horse, hesitation written all over his face.
Truth be told, ever since leaving the dungeon, he’d wanted to borrow Arthur’s gun to kill one of the O’Driscoll boys still locked up down there.
But with Davey and Mac present, he hadn’t dared to ask.

Now, as they were about to leave Strawberry, the thought gnawed at him.
“Arthur, can I borrow your gun? I’ve got something to take care of. Trust me, Arthur.”
Micah hesitated but forced the words out.

Davey instantly caught on to what Micah was planning. He nudged Mac’s shoulder and gave him a look.
Mac understood immediately and delivered a hard kick straight into Micah’s back, sending him sprawling face-first into the dirt.

“You filthy rat! Trying to drag us into more trouble, huh?”
“If you’re so eager to die, I’ll put a bullet in your skull right now.”

Chapter Text

In Strawberry Town, Micah Bell had landed himself in jail because of an old enemy.
Now that he was out, all he could think about was revenge.
But Davey wasn’t about to give him that chance.

Mac’s kick had made Micah understand—standing before the Callander brothers, he wasn’t about to accomplish anything.
After a brief hesitation, he climbed onto Arthur’s horse, sitting behind him while Arthur wore an expression of clear disgust.

“Alright, Arthur, take this rat back to camp. Mac and I have other things to handle.”

Davey had no plans to return to camp anytime soon.
By his calculations, Benedict’s moonshine recipe should be ready around now.
But after spending another $500 in Strawberry, Davey was left with just over $1,000.
Two-thirds of the $3,000 he’d exchanged from gold bars was already gone.

The most urgent thing now was to get the moonshine business running. Without cash flow, everything he’d built so far would just be an illusion.
And if Benedict still hadn’t made any progress by the time Davey returned to Valentine, he might have to consider finding someone else.

...

After Arthur left, Davey and Mac decided to spend the night at Strawberry’s reception center.
Interestingly, the clerk there had another identity—he was the secret lover of Nicholas Timmins, the mayor of Strawberry Town.
That was Mayor Timmins’ little secret.

For the moment, the mayor wasn’t of much use to Davey. Maybe later on, he’d come in handy—but that could wait.
Sheriff Hanley, on the other hand, was proving far more useful.

“Davey, following you around like this makes me feel like an idiot,” Mac grumbled.
In his mind, coming to Strawberry should’ve meant wreaking havoc—maybe even wiping out the entire police department.
That was how Mac thought things should go.

After all, during the Blackwater heist, nearly half the town had been wiped out.
But now? He’d done nothing—no fighting, no shooting. Just tagging along and watching Davey get things done without breaking a sweat.

“Oh, Mac, my brother,” Davey said with a grin, “do you really want to live like a drifter forever?”
“Fine wine, steak, and your favorite hot coffee—doesn’t that sound a bit better?”
“Rescuing that rat was just a side task. What matters is that I’ve made contact with Sheriff Hanley. This is a dry town—the folks here work hard all day but can’t even get a sip of whiskey to unwind.”
“Mac, do you know what that means? It means our moonshine business is going to boom here.”

Davey had to at least humor his twin brother’s feelings.

Mac sighed. “Fine, Davey. But our moonshine business hasn’t even started yet. Who knows how long it’ll take? It’s been nearly a week already.”
“And I’m broke.”

Davey gave him a look—he knew exactly what that meant. Mac just wanted money to blow.
“I’ve got the business handled. Here—$200. That should keep you busy for a while.”

Davey pulled out a few folded bills and tossed them to him.
Mac snatched them up eagerly, kissing the cash.

“Oh, what a beautiful scent! Davey, don’t wait up tonight—I’m going to find myself some fun!”

Grinning, Mac stuffed the money into his pocket and left the room in high spirits.

Once he was gone, Davey headed downstairs. He couldn’t stand the constant smell of sweat and dirt and decided to visit the town’s bathhouse—and maybe see if any decent girls were around.
Unfortunately, the selection was disappointing. None of the women were remotely attractive.

He couldn’t help but think back to his previous life, where makeup and glamour were everywhere, and beautiful women were a common sight.
Out here in the untamed West, where everything was raw and natural, finding a truly beautiful woman in a small town like this was nearly impossible.

Catherine, the woman he’d met at the train station, was still the most beautiful he’d ever seen.
Thinking of her, Davey realized he’d never written her that letter.

After his bath, he sat down with paper and pen, finally deciding to do it.

...

To the Enchanting Miss Catherine,

It has been seventeen days since we last met at the train station, though to me, these seventeen days have felt like seventeen years.

Please forgive me for not writing sooner. Blame my cowardice—for every time I recall your lovely face, I’m struck by a sense of unworthiness. Only today have I found the courage to face my own heart and write to you.

I have never missed anyone the way I miss you—whether I’m riding, eating, or even sleeping.
I often sit beneath the night sky, gazing at the countless stars, and they seem to form the shape of your charming smile.

How I wish I could see you again, my dear and captivating Miss Catherine.
Yet there are matters I find difficult to speak of—things that have kept me from your side.

I eagerly await the day we meet again.

Your friend,
Davey

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

The next day, Davey and Mac returned to Valentine, to Donal’s base of operations.

“Mac, this’ll be your room from now on,” Davey said, assigning him the second-floor guest bedroom.

Back at camp, the brothers had always shared a tent, but times had changed—and so had their living conditions.
“Oh, a real bed! This sure beats sleeping out in the dirt,” Mac said with a grin.
“I feel like I’ve joined high society. Maybe I ought to buy a suit—start acting like a proper gentleman.”
“Damn, are we finally living the dream we always talked about?”

Davey didn’t bother responding. He still needed to check on the speakeasy.

Compared to Davey, Mac was far more popular among Donal and his men.
They all feared Davey—deeply. Even though he always carried a calm, polite smile and dressed in simple cowboy clothes like the rest of them, something about him felt… different.
It wasn’t anything he said or did—it was just there, an air that made it clear he wasn’t from their world.

Mac, on the other hand—loud, crude, and fond of swearing—felt like one of their own.
It wouldn’t take long before he was drinking and joking with them like family.

Just as Davey was about to leave, Donal came rushing over, visibly shaken.
“Mr. Callander—outside… they’re here. The Pinkertons. They’re asking to see you.”

In the West, no one took the Pinkerton Detective Agency lightly. Their name alone sent a chill down the spine of every outlaw in America.
From the highest offices in government to the poorest drifter, everyone knew the Pinkertons—and most wanted nothing to do with them.

Donal was clever in small ways, but he was still just a minor figure in Valentine, surviving by knowing a few useful secrets.
And now, with the Pinkertons showing up at his doorstep, he was terrified.

“Donal, relax,” Davey said calmly. “No need to panic.”
“Show our guests to the parlor. Brew them some coffee. Tell them I’ll be down shortly.”

Hearing Davey’s steady tone, Donal slowly regained his composure and went downstairs.

Davey wasn’t trying to play the gentleman—he simply needed a few minutes to change.
He pulled out his fine suit from before. As much as he hated to admit it, appearances could matter a great deal.

...

Downstairs, two men waited on the sofa—Pinkerton Senior Agent Andrew Milton and his partner, Agent Edgar Ross.
Their reputations preceded them.

They sat quietly, while Donal and his men—Mac included—stood nearby, all of them tense and uneasy.
Mac kept glancing up toward the stairs, wondering what was taking Davey so long.
Donal, meanwhile, couldn’t help thinking, Did Mr. Callander run off?

Milton hadn’t even finished half a cup of coffee, but for the men waiting there, it felt like an eternity.

Then, at last, the sound of footsteps echoed down the staircase.
Everyone exhaled in relief, turning instinctively toward the stairs.

Davey descended slowly into view—wearing a sharp, perfectly tailored suit, a fashionable tall hat, and polished shoes gleaming in the light. A refined walking cane rested in his right hand.
Everything about him—his posture, his composure, his refined elegance—seemed completely out of place in this rough frontier town.
If he’d claimed to be a nobleman from Europe, no one would have doubted it.

His sharp, intelligent gaze fell on Milton and Ross.

“My apologies, Mr. Milton, Mr. Ross, for keeping you waiting,” Davey said smoothly. “I hope you’ll forgive my tardiness.”

It was a confident opening—a preemptive move.
Milton and Ross both showed visible surprise.
This was clearly their first meeting, yet Davey had greeted them by name without a moment’s hesitation.

As a seasoned investigator, Milton immediately realized one thing: this man knew more about them than they’d expected.

Still, Milton wasn’t about to be intimidated. “Mr. Callander,” he said dryly, “had I not read your file, I might have mistaken you for a civilized gentleman—rather than a ruthless criminal.”

Davey didn’t rise to the bait. He walked over, sat down across from them, and gestured to his men.
“Mac, Donal—take the others outside for a break,” he said evenly. “I need to speak with these two gentlemen privately.”

Mac and Donal were only too eager to leave, and the rest of the men followed.
Donal cast one last nervous glance at the agents, then bowed slightly. “As you wish, Mr. Callander.”

Once the room was empty, Davey turned his attention back to Milton.

“Such an abrupt and unannounced visit—hardly the most civilized behavior, wouldn’t you say?”
“Perhaps I should ask Sheriff Malloy just how many Pinkerton agents have come through Valentine lately.”
“In New Hanover, you two should understand something—the Pinkerton name doesn’t carry the same authority it used to.”
“Oh, maybe I should write to a few friends in the unions. They’ve always taken a rather… personal interest in the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

Chapter Text

In the money-driven United States, the Pinkerton Detective Agency did not exist to fight crime.
Instead, its clients were the wealthy elite—powerful capitalists, magnates, and industrial tycoons.
Simply put, they served only the rich.

By the late 19th century, business owners were hiring the Pinkertons to spy on workers, protect strikebreakers, or even pose as them. They often took part directly in crushing labor strikes.
The Homestead Strike became the agency’s most infamous episode—a bloody labor conflict at Carnegie Steel in Pennsylvania in 1892.

With steel magnate Andrew Carnegie away in Scotland, company chairman Henry Clay Frick took charge. To break the strike, he hired the Pinkertons, prolonging the conflict for 143 days.
On July 6, 1892, 300 agents from New York and Chicago arrived at the occupied steelworks. The Pinkertons opened fire on the strikers, killing ten people—seven workers and three agents—and wounding hundreds more.

To restore order, Pennsylvania’s governor deployed two brigades of state militia to clean up the aftermath.
As the Pinkertons’ involvement in violent strikes grew, Congress passed the Anti-Pinkerton Act in 1893, banning the government from employing them as strikebreakers and revoking their law enforcement powers.

Hunting criminals was merely a sideline for the Pinkertons—but even so, their name alone struck fear into every outlaw across the West.
Labor unions, however, felt no such fear. The Pinkertons’ past brutality had earned them the unions’ hatred. Any hint of misconduct from the agency would spark immediate public outrage.

By now, the Pinkerton Detective Agency was dismissing large numbers of agents each year. With declining influence and revenue, they could no longer afford their bloated payroll.

Davey first mentioned Sheriff Malloy, then brought up the unions—a calculated move to put pressure on Milton.
The effect was immediate.

When Sheriff Malloy’s name came up, Milton and Ross barely reacted. But the moment unions were mentioned, their expressions changed—surprise flickering across their faces.

“It seems Mr. Davey has spent quite some time and money learning about us. Hard to imagine such words coming from a so-called notorious criminal,” Milton said coldly.
“I’m beginning to wonder if the files I’ve read have been switched.”
“Or do you think we have no way to deal with you? You should know we’re employed by Mr. Leviticus Cornwall himself.”
“You robbed his train, stole his bonds. Did you really think you could get away with that?”

Milton’s tone was low and threatening as he stared at Davey.

Davey smiled faintly. “Perhaps Mr. Milton should worry about getting his enforcement rights sorted first. From what I hear, Mr. Cornwall’s dealings in New Hanover haven’t been going so well.”
“It’s also rather rude to keep calling me a notorious criminal.”
“Tell me, aren’t you working for one yourself? Don’t tell me the Pinkertons—with all their intelligence networks—don’t know about the fire in Limpany.”
“So please, spare me the act of righteousness, Mr. Milton.”
“And Mr. Ross, the way you’re looking at me—quite offensive.”
“In this country, we deal in evidence, don’t we?”

Limpany—a small town northwest of Horseshoe Overlook—was burned to the ground.
The man behind that fire was Leviticus Cornwall.

It wasn’t exactly a secret. Many in high places knew something about it, yet none ever dared confront Cornwall. After all, the rise of nearly every tycoon in the country was stained with blood.

Ross’s eyes blazed with fury. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to put a bullet in Davey’s head.

“Ross, mind your manners,” Milton said. “We’re standing before a gentleman.”
“Mr. Callander, I must admit—the information you possess is impressive. Hard to imagine someone like you joining the Van der Linde Gang.”
“As for the rest, there’s no need to discuss it further. We’re here for one reason: we want you to hand over Dutch. The others in your gang—we won’t pursue them.”
“If you’re willing, Mr. Callander, I believe we could become fine partners.”
“After all, from what our reports suggest, you and Dutch are no longer walking the same path, are you?”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Although the conversation with Davey hadn’t gone smoothly—and even left Milton and Ross feeling somewhat frustrated—they had seen a glimmer of potential cooperation.

The Davey standing before them now, from his refined attire to his calm, deliberate manner of speaking, was clearly no longer a brute. He was a man beginning to embrace civilization.
Milton’s impression of him had even improved.

“Tell me, Mr. Milton, what do you think makes a civilized man? Does maintaining one’s dignity mean selling out his friends?”
“Don’t talk to me about criminals. Surely, Mr. Milton, you know exactly what kind of man I am.”
“A new era is dawning. The East’s civilization is merging with the West, just as the Pinkertons’ former glory has faded. Nothing in this world stays the same.”
“I simply wish to survive and prosper in this new age—nothing more. But that doesn’t mean I’ll cross my own lines or act against my conscience.”
“Of course, setting Dutch aside, there’s still plenty of room for cooperation between us, Mr. Milton.”

Davey’s tone was calm but firm—his rejection clear.
No matter what the Pinkertons offered, betraying Dutch would bring him no benefit.
Besides, in his heart, Arthur, John, Hosea, and the others were his friends.

After all, his former self had spent eight years working with the Van der Linde Gang.
Those memories still lingered vividly in his mind.
“Maybe it was just a dream within a dream—who can really tell what’s real and what’s not?”

“We have no interest in cooperating with you,” Ross said coldly.
Davey just smiled. “Who can say what the future holds?”

Milton understood that convincing Davey to hand over Dutch was impossible—at least, not today.
“Mr. Callander, please don’t take offense at our sudden visit. I’m sure we’ll be in touch again soon.”
“If you ever change your mind, we’d be happy to work with you.”
“It’s getting late—we should be going.”
“Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Callander. It was excellent.”

Davey smiled lightly. “You’re welcome anytime, Mr. Milton. Though, I must admit, I’m not much of a coffee drinker. I prefer tea.”
“And Mr. Ross—you’d do well to learn from Mr. Milton. Whatever the situation, don’t be so impatient. Keep a cool head.”

Ross only snorted in response.
Now he could clearly feel the sharp edge in Davey’s words.
A criminal speaking like a nobleman, lecturing him as if from a pedestal—it made his blood boil.
He feared that if he stayed any longer, he’d draw his gun without thinking.

But then he remembered Davey Callander’s file—the part that described his unmatched marksmanship. If Ross went for his gun, he’d likely be the one to fall first.
The thought only made him angrier.

The door swung open.
Outside, Mac, Donal, and a few of their men were waiting on the flat ground.
They watched as the two Pinkerton agents walked out alongside Davey.

Then they heard Davey’s voice.
“Mr. Milton, Mr. Ross, I won’t see you off. You’re welcome to visit anytime.”
“Perhaps next time, we can talk business.”
“My new venture’s just getting started, and I’m in need of good partners.”

The taller of the two Pinkertons—the one clearly in charge—replied,
“Mr. Callander, I’m afraid there’s little we can do to help with your particular line of business.”
“But with your talents, I’m sure it’ll grow into something much bigger. Who knows—perhaps we really will end up working together.”

In Milton’s career, he’d met plenty of men as stubborn as Davey—and every one of them had gone on to become someone important.
After all, the Pinkertons worked for money, and Milton saw no reason to keep trading barbs. A few polite words cost him nothing.
Still, if the opportunity arose, he wouldn’t hesitate to take Davey down.

The subtleties of all this were far beyond Mac, Donal, and the rest of the roughnecks who couldn’t even read a newspaper.
If they could understand such things, they wouldn’t be living the way they were.

To them, Davey now radiated a kind of divine brilliance.
From what they’d just overheard, it sounded like the Pinkertons couldn’t do a thing to him—in fact, they’d treated

Chapter Text

If Mac hadn’t been around Davey every single day, he might have started to believe his brother had been replaced by someone else.
The change was just that drastic.

So drastic, in fact, that Mac could hardly believe it himself.
“Maybe it’s because of when I got hurt back then?” he wondered.

After thinking it over, Mac convinced himself it must’ve been his fault—that his near-death experience was what made Davey turn into the man he was now.
He still remembered that time in Colter Village, when Davey sat beside his bed, lost in thought for days on end, barely saying a word.
Maybe that was when everything started to change.

No matter how much Mac tried to make sense of it, one thing was undeniable—Davey had truly become a big shot now.
The kind of man even the Pinkertons couldn’t do a damn thing about.

“Alright, Mac, stay here for now. You can head into town and have some fun if you want,” Davey said.
“Donal, you’re coming with me.”

He gave the order casually. He still needed to visit the speakeasy—his plans had been thrown off earlier by the Pinkertons’ sudden arrival.

“Got it, Davey. I’m heading to town!”
That was exactly what Mac wanted to hear. A few drinks were all it took to lift his spirits.

Donal, meanwhile, straightened up with renewed respect.
Even though Davey told him not to be so formal, Donal couldn’t help it—he was following a man who even the Pinkertons couldn’t touch. Of course, he had to show respect.

The reason Davey brought Donal to the speakeasy was simple—sales.
Making moonshine was one thing, but selling it was another.
Mac was useless in that regard; at best, he could serve as muscle for deliveries.
Donal, on the other hand, was the key to breaking open the moonshine market.

And besides, it wasn’t like Davey could keep the speakeasy’s location a secret from him forever.

They rode out together, and soon the small building came into view—not far from Valentine.
Donal’s excitement was obvious. The fact that Mr. Callander was bringing him here meant he was being trusted as an insider.

“Oh, Mr. Callander, perfect timing! Come taste these—I’ve got a few different flavors, and I can’t decide which one’s best!”
“I’ve already recreated the flavor of fine whiskey. No ordinary man could tell the difference!”

Benedict’s voice called out eagerly as Davey entered, Donal trailing behind. He didn’t seem to care that Davey had brought someone new. All he wanted was to show off his results.

Three bottles sat neatly on the counter. The liquid inside looked crystal clear, almost indistinguishable from real whiskey.

Smiling, Davey said, “Mr. Benedict, you’ve certainly lived up to expectations. These three bottles—different formulas, I take it?”

Benedict nodded quickly. “Yes, Mr. Callander. The formulas are mostly the same, but each one emphasizes a different characteristic. I just can’t decide which works best.”
“It’s been bothering me for days. But now that you’re here, I’ll let you make the call.”

Davey nodded—he’d planned on tasting them anyway.
He grabbed a glass and poured a little from the first bottle.

Before it even touched his lips, the strong aroma hit him, and he was instantly pleased. That smell alone was on par with any top-shelf whiskey.
But the real test was always in the taste.

A good whiskey should be smooth on the palate, well-balanced, rich in aroma, and leave a lingering finish.
Davey took a small sip—and his eyes lit up.

He tried the second, then the third.
All three were impressive, each one good enough to rival genuine name-brand liquor. With moonshine like this, the business was bound to take off fast.

After all, who wouldn’t want to pay less for something that tasted just as good as the real thing?

In fine spirits, the qualities people prized most were aroma, sweetness, purity, and body.
The very best didn’t make you thirsty or give you a hangover.
These three batches, though, each stood out in a different way—one for its aroma, one for its sweetness, and one for its purity.

After a brief moment of thought, Davey chose the sweet one.
That decision had everything to do with the current state of the US—sweet flavors were popular everywhere, from the East to the West. People loved sweetness; it was a comfort.

A whiskey with a pleasant, lingering sweetness would sell easily.
Normally, that sweetness came naturally through the distilling process. But in Benedict’s case, it was clear he’d added artificial sweeteners to achieve the effect—something that made the recipe even more valuable.

“Mr. Benedict, I’m very pleased with all three versions,” Davey said finally.
“So now I’ll need you to write down the formulas for each of them.”
“And then, I’d like you to make another batch right here in front of me, using those same recipes.”
“I trust such a simple request won’t be an issue for you, Mr. Benedict?”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Benedict hesitated for a moment, uncertainty flickering in his expression.
He knew exactly how much money his refined moonshine formula could bring in.
This was the result of countless sleepless nights, endless trials, and meticulous adjustments.

Over the past few weeks, he’d felt like he was back in school again—stuck in those damned chemistry labs, mixing and testing formulas day after day.
Back then, his family had been well-off enough to afford an education.
But stories like his were common across the country. His father’s failed investments had sent the family’s comfortable life spiraling into hardship.

Benedict had no head for business, and his academic talent was mediocre at best. In the end, he’d drifted west, reduced to selling fake medicine just to survive.
These days in the cellar, working on the moonshine recipe, he could swear to God he’d never worked harder in his entire life.

His life literally depended on it.
If he failed to come up with a brew that satisfied Davey, he had no doubt the man would put a bullet in his head.
He had to prove his worth.

If only he’d worked this hard back when he was studying, maybe he could’ve been a respected professor by now.
But perhaps God had finally shown him some mercy—because after all this time, he’d done it. He’d created something truly remarkable.

In truth, the flavor differences came down to a matter of ingredients and precision in the brewing process.
Making proper moonshine wasn’t as simple as dumping in alcohol, flavoring, and coloring.
It required timing and technique—adding colorants when the alcohol reached the right proof, gradually increasing the concentration, and only then introducing the flavoring to achieve perfect layering.

There were countless steps, and a single mistake could ruin the flavor completely.
Yet when Benedict saw the faint smile on Davey’s face, he knew resistance was pointless. Reluctantly, he prepared to demonstrate the entire process before him.

“Mr. Callander, I’d like to step outside for a smoke. Would that be alright?” Donal asked suddenly as Benedict began setting up.

Davey nodded. He understood—Donal was being discreet, stepping out so there would be no misunderstandings later.

Once Donal left, Benedict began his demonstration.

‘Foolish man,’ he thought, glancing at Davey. ‘An uncultured brute like you could watch me all day and still never understand.’
‘This perfect method belongs only to the great Benedict Allbright.’

He kept a flattering smile plastered on his face, but inside, his pride simmered.
What he didn’t realize, however, was that the man standing before him carried a soul from the future.

Davey might have long forgotten most of his school chemistry, but he still understood the fundamentals—certainly more than Benedict would’ve guessed.
As Benedict worked, Davey quietly took notes, comparing the formula and asking sharp, focused questions about each step.

When Benedict finished the first batch, Davey took a small sip and nodded approvingly.
Then he calmly asked him to make another.

‘He thinks he can learn my process? Delusional fool,’ Benedict scoffed inwardly, though he dared not say it aloud. He started a second batch anyway—mostly because of the revolver hanging at Davey’s side.

When the second round was done, Davey rolled up his sleeves and decided to try it himself.

Benedict stood nearby, looking smug when Davey wasn’t watching—but the moment Davey turned, his scowl flipped into a servile grin.
He was convinced Davey would fail miserably. Once the man realized how complex the process truly was, he’d understand Benedict’s brilliance.

But as the minutes passed, Benedict’s arrogance began to crumble.
To his disbelief, Davey was replicating his method step by step, hitting every critical stage flawlessly.
When the bottle was finally filled, its color and clarity nearly identical to his own batch, Benedict couldn’t hold back—he rushed forward, uncorked it, and took a sip.

“This… this is impossible! Absolutely impossible! How did you do this? How could you possibly do this?”

In that instant, Benedict felt his whole world collapse.
What had taken him weeks of painstaking work, Davey had duplicated in less than an hour.
It reminded him painfully of the prodigies he’d once envied back in school—the ones who’d always been a step ahead of him.

Davey took a sip of his own batch. The taste wasn’t a perfect match yet, but it was close enough.
A few more tries, and he’d have it down exactly.

“Excellent work, Mr. Benedict,” Davey said with a satisfied smile.
“Your recipe truly exceeds expectations.”
“I can already imagine how much people will love this once it hits the market.”
“And who knows—once we’ve made enough money, we might even build our own moonshine brand.”

He paused, then added with a hint of pride,
“Benedict, your contribution is invaluable. From this moment on, you’ll receive ten percent of all profits from my moonshine sales.”

Chapter Text

“Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Callander.”

The promise of ten percent of the moonshine profits instantly revived Benedict’s spirits.
Moments ago, he’d felt crushed—but now, all his frustration melted away. Compared to cold, hard cash, what else in this world could possibly matter?
Nothing was more seductive than the almighty dollar.

He hadn’t expected Davey’s talk of partnership to be genuine. At first, he’d assumed it was just another empty promise.
After all, Davey now held his formula—and considering their power dynamic, even if he refused to share the profits, there wasn’t a damn thing Benedict could do about it.

He’d met plenty of rich men and businessmen in his life—ruthless types who’d bleed a man dry and still demand his bones.
The wealthy were greedy beyond reason, and none of them would ever willingly share their earnings.

“Alright then, Mr. Benedict,” Davey said evenly. “Now let’s talk about production costs.”

Davey wasn’t doing this out of kindness. The reason he offered that ten percent cut was because he recognized Benedict’s value.
He hadn’t expected perfection from this operation; he just wanted a decent-tasting moonshine.
But Benedict had far exceeded his expectations—creating something that not only matched the flavor of fine whiskey but had its own unique charm.

Talent, Davey knew, was rare and precious in any era.
Exploit it too harshly, and it would die off. Work together, and both sides could thrive.
Benedict, now with a taste of reward, wouldn’t think about running—he’d be even more committed to protecting their shared interests.

“Mr. Callander, our production costs aren’t high,” Benedict began eagerly. “The real value lies in the complexity of the process itself. Flavorings and colorants cost only a few dollars a bag, enough to last us quite a while.”
“To produce one large batch—about a hundred gallons or so—the cost runs around thirty dollars. Bottling comes to roughly twenty to thirty cents per bottle.”
“Oh, the only real expense is the glass bottles themselves. They’re seven and a half cents each, though if you order in bulk, I’m sure the manufacturer would offer a discount.”
“Of course, that doesn’t include labor or transport costs. But Mr. Callander, with the quality of our moonshine, we could sell it for $2.50 a bottle, and people would still line up to buy it. We won’t have to worry about sales.”

As Davey listened, the numbers began forming a clear plan in his mind.
On the current market, most strong liquors sold for between two and five dollars a bottle. Premium brands cost more, of course.
Even within the same label, there were different tiers and price points.

In Valentine, though, even the “expensive” liquor was relatively cheap.
Brandy sold for $3.00 a bottle.
Kentucky bourbon went for $3.75.
Gin was $2.10, Guarma rum $2.50, and whiskey $2.60.
All of these were among the town’s best-selling spirits.

Then there were lighter drinks—beer, for example, cost around $1.50 a bottle.
Moonshine, on the other hand, varied wildly. Low-quality batches could go for as little as a dollar, but those were often mixed with industrial alcohol—cheap, dangerous, and sometimes lethal.
High-quality moonshine, however, could fetch $2.25 on the black market.

“Produce at full capacity, Mr. Benedict,” Davey said after a pause. “I want five hundred bottles ready as soon as possible.”
“Don’t worry about distribution—I’ll handle that.”

Right now, he was running low on cash. And without money, everything became difficult.
But now that the formula was set, it was time to bring in revenue.

“Very well, Mr. Callander,” Benedict said, bowing slightly. “Though I do have one small request.”
“Could you find me a reliable assistant? Bottling is tedious work, and frankly, my time would be better spent perfecting the product rather than wasting it on such dull tasks.”
“It really gets in the way of my creative process, you know.”

Davey gave a small chuckle. “Of course, Mr. Benedict. I’ll see to it as soon as possible. But for now, I’ll need you to manage on your own. I expect these five hundred bottles ready for transport by this time tomorrow.”

Benedict sighed but nodded. “Alright then, just don’t keep me waiting too long, Mr. Callander.”

Davey picked up two bottles of the fresh moonshine and left the cellar.

Outside, Donal was waiting.
“Mr. Callander,” he greeted as Davey approached.

Davey handed him one of the bottles. “Try it. This is our own brew.”

Donal took a sip, and his eyes went wide with amazement.
“My God, Mr. Callander—is this really moonshine? It tastes like something straight out of a fine distillery!”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Donal was a lover of fine liquor—or rather, in the West, nearly every man was. That was precisely why so many across the US had begun to support the Prohibition movement. For men in the US, alcohol had become an inseparable part of life.

Donal knew all too well what kind of uproar a moonshine of this quality would cause on the black market.
“Mr. Callander, I can guarantee you, if this really is moonshine, no one will be able to resist it.
Honestly, I can hardly believe it’s not some kind of premium liquor. The taste—my God—it’s intoxicating.”

“Compared to whiskey, brandy, or even Kentucky bourbon, it’s in no way inferior. In fact, if I had to choose, I might even prefer this one.”

Donal spoke in a jumble of excitement. He had just watched the brewing process in the cellar and knew for certain that this was real moonshine—and that meant enormous profit.
“Mr. Callander, if I may ask, what price do you plan to sell it for? I’d say it’s worth at least three dollars, but if it’s priced too high, sales might suffer. Many people won’t be able to afford it.”

Davey thought for a moment before replying. “I don’t intend to position it as a luxury spirit. Even though it rivals the finest brands, that would only put it out of reach for most folks.”

“I want to make a true people’s moonshine—something even ordinary workers and farmers can afford. They deserve to enjoy something better without spending a fortune.”

“So, I’ve set the price at two dollars per bottle.”

Donal blinked in disbelief. “Two dollars a bottle? Are you certain, Mr. Callander?”

“On the black market, a bottle of good moonshine—one far inferior to this—still sells for about $2.25. Isn’t that price of yours a little too low?”

“In my opinion, with this level of quality, you could easily charge $2.50 and people would still love it. Maybe set it at $2.25 to match the black market rate. I doubt anyone would turn that down.”

Davey shook his head. “Donal, like I said, I want to make this a truly affordable moonshine. And not just at two dollars. If someone buys ten bottles at once, the price drops to $1.80. If they buy thirty, it’s $1.60 per bottle.”

“As for you, Donal, I’ll give you a special price—$1.50 per bottle.”

“Of course, that $1.50 includes transportation. I’ve said before—we’re partners. And I make sure every partner earns well. I never shortchange my friends.”

“But you must follow my sales plan exactly—no raising prices on your own.”

Donal could hardly breathe. He never imagined Davey would offer such a generous profit margin.
One taste was enough to know this moonshine would sell itself. Even if he sold it for $1.80, he’d still earn thirty cents per bottle.

Thirty cents didn’t sound like much—but ten bottles a day meant three dollars profit, more than a laborer’s daily wage.
And if he sold a hundred bottles? Thirty dollars. Nine hundred a month.

God almighty, he didn’t even dare think beyond that. Deep down, he knew—selling more than a hundred bottles a day wouldn’t be difficult at all.

“Mr. Callander, I... I... I will be your most loyal subordinate.”

Overwhelmed by excitement, Donal couldn’t find the words to express himself. After struggling for a while, that was all he could manage to say.

Davey patted his shoulder. “Take it easy, Donal. Follow me, and you’ll see a much wider sky ahead.”

When Davey’s hand rested on his shoulder, Donal felt the weight of that gesture—it meant opportunity, power, and trust. He lowered his head deeply in respect to Mr. Callander.

“Donal, though the retail price is two dollars, I’d prefer buyers to purchase at $1.80.”
“For many, buying ten bottles at once might be too much, but there’s another way—you can offer them group buying.”

“If a buyer can gather ten people to purchase together, they save twenty cents each. Who would refuse to save money that easily?”

“And with that, we can spread our moonshine across the entire market far more quickly. Do you understand what I mean, Donal?”

Davey continued his explanation.
Discounts were common, but group buying—that was his secret weapon.

From his memories of a past life, he knew one truth well: low prices could shake any market, and no one could resist a good deal.

Chapter Text

Donal could tell right away—this “group buying” idea was nothing short of genius.
One person convincing ten others to join in would spread their moonshine faster than anything else. In no time, they’d dominate the entire Valentine market. More and more people would be lining up to buy their brew.

“Tomorrow, at this time, bring some men here to transport the shipment,” Davey instructed calmly. “And remember—show Mr. Benedict the utmost respect.”

“Also, his safety will be your responsibility.”

“Once you’ve picked up the moonshine, deliver thirty bottles to the Valentine Police Station under my name—three for the sheriff, two for the deputy, and one each for the rest of the officers.”

“I’ll be away for a few days, Donal. I’m trusting you not to disappoint me.”

“If anything goes wrong, find Micah. He’ll handle it.”

Once the moonshine business started rolling, expansion required more capital. Davey planned to fetch a few gold bars to fund that next step.

In Valentine, the moonshine trade wouldn’t face much trouble—especially with the local law on their side. That police “donation” ensured things would run smoothly.

“Rest assured, Mr. Callander,” Donal straightened his back, his tone firm with loyalty. “I won’t let you down.”

Davey’s next destination was quite a journey—actually, two.

One was in West Elizabeth, near Strawberry, by the lake of Owanjila. Beneath a small stream south of the Red Arabian horse’s usual grazing spot, an old wagon hid three gold bars.

The other was in Ambarino, near an old veteran’s farm in East Grizzlies. On a small island in the middle of O’Creagh’s Run lay two more gold bars.

Together, they were worth around three thousand dollars—enough for Davey to expand production and strengthen his moonshine operation.

There were more gold caches scattered across the frontier, of course, but by the time he’d reach those, Davey figured he wouldn’t need to bother. Once the moonshine business took off, the profits would far outweigh any stash of buried gold.

...

Horseshoe Overlook Camp

Arthur had successfully brought Micah back to camp, though no one seemed particularly happy about it. Most of the gang openly showed their dislike for him. Only Dutch came forward to offer a few consoling words.

“Dutch,” Micah began quickly, “something’s off with Davey. Do you know how he got me out?”

“The Strawberry sheriff’s office—Davey was in cahoots with them! They just handed him the keys and let me walk free.”

“Dutch, that man’s hiding something big from us. Arthur probably knows something too, but he won’t tell me.”

No sooner had Micah returned than he started tattling about Davey. It baffled him—he couldn’t figure out how Davey had pulled it off. He’d asked Arthur several times on the way back, but Arthur ignored him every time.

Dutch frowned and turned to Arthur.
“Arthur, my boy, tell me—what exactly happened in Strawberry?”

“I heard from Micah that you broke him out of the jailhouse. But that’s West Elizabeth, son. The sheriff there would’ve known who Micah was. So, tell me—what really happened?”

Arthur had no reason to refuse, but he wasn’t eager to expose Davey’s part in it either.

“Dutch, listen… I’m not sure myself,” Arthur said slowly. “Davey led us straight to the sheriff’s office, found the man, and went into his office to talk privately.”

“Not long after, they both came out laughing together—like old friends. Then the sheriff rounded up his deputies and headed out on patrol, and Davey already had the cell keys in his hand.”

Dutch didn’t look convinced. “Arthur, didn’t you notice anything else?”

Arthur shook his head. “No, Dutch. But I can guarantee Davey didn’t know that sheriff beforehand. Maybe he paid him off—probably shelled out a good sum of money to buy his help.”

That explanation made the most sense. Dutch had heard about Davey robbing a wealthy man recently—no one knew how much he’d taken, but it had to be a hefty amount.

“Alright, Arthur,” Dutch finally said. “But Davey’s been acting strange lately. If you notice anything, you come straight to me.”

Arthur frowned. “Dutch, maybe you shouldn’t trust that rat so much. No one else here does.”

Dutch brushed him off with a faint smile. “That’s enough, Arthur. I have my reasons. Micah has his uses.”

“Now listen—Hosea’s picked up some new information. We might have another job lined up soon.”

“I’ve got a plan, Arthur—a perfect plan. This time, nothing will go wrong. Trust me, son. Our future will be brighter than ever.”

Arthur nodded slowly. “I hope so, Dutch. I really do. But I believe in you.”

Just then, Susan Grimshaw walked over.
“Arthur, there’s a letter for you at the post office. I’ve put it on your wagon.”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Valentine.

The day after Davey left, Donal rented a wagon and headed to the distillery to pick up 495 bottles of moonshine.
The reason it wasn’t an even 500 was simple—Benedict insisted on keeping three for himself.

By right, Donal should have paid Davey $742.50 upfront, but he didn’t have that kind of money. Fortunately, Davey had allowed him to sell the stock first and settle the payment afterward.

Following Davey’s instructions, Donal’s first stop was the Valentine Police Station.

“Oh, Donal, how’s it going working for Mr. Callander these days?”

Deputy Sheriff Graf was lounging by the entrance, enjoying the sun. Truth be told, the Valentine Police Station rarely had much to do. Other than keeping order in town, most of their work involved posting bounties on wanted outlaws.

“Deputy Sheriff, it’s an honor to be working under Mr. Callander,” Donal said with a polite smile.
“Mr. Callander’s new batch of moonshine is ready. He specifically asked me to bring some over for the officers to sample—just a small token of his goodwill.”
“Trust me, sir, once you taste it, you’ll love it.”

As he spoke, Donal pulled two bottles from the wagon and handed them over.

Graf took them, examining the liquid against the light. “Well, that’s a fine color. Looks like Mr. Callander really put his heart into this. It almost looks like whiskey.”

“Perhaps you should give it a try,” Donal said lightly. “By the way, is the Sheriff in?”

Graf nodded. “Yeah, he’s in his office.”

Donal motioned for two men to carry several crates inside—one holding twelve bottles, the other two holding twenty-four each.

He then made his way to Sheriff Malloy’s office, offering Davey’s regards and explaining that the moonshine was a gift for the department’s officers.

“Nice color,” Malloy remarked, glancing at the bottles. “Let’s hope it’s not that cheap moonshine, Donal. You know how that stuff kills people.”

“Of course not, Sheriff. Mr. Callander’s working with Calloway now—he’s got reliable channels for medical-grade alcohol.”

Malloy nodded at the three bottles set on his desk, though he didn’t open one. Both the old Valentine Saloon and the newly opened Smithfield Saloon regularly sent him quality spirits, so he was never short on fine liquor.

Still, he reminded Donal, “Make sure Mr. Callander doesn’t use industrial alcohol for profit. The last thing we need is people dying from bad booze.”

“Yes, Sheriff,” Donal replied simply. There was no point arguing—one sip was all it would take to prove the purity of Davey’s moonshine.

With the Sheriff’s approval, Donal stepped back into the main hall.

“Hey, fellas, take a break for a second!” he called out.
“Listen up—this is from the generous Mr. Callander himself! High-quality moonshine, smooth and rich. Believe me, once you taste it, you’ll never forget it.”
“And today, every one of you fine officers gets a bottle. Let’s all thank Mr. Callander for his generosity!”

For most of the officers, their wages didn’t allow them to drink regularly, and moonshine was a familiar indulgence. Someone offering free liquor was always a welcome sight—and none of them were shy about offering a few kind words in return.

Soon, the station was filled with calls of, “Thank you, generous Mr. Callander!” as each officer received a bottle. Even the ones out on patrol had bottles set aside for them.

“Holy hell, is this really moonshine? You sure this isn’t some fancy top-shelf spirit? My God, I can’t believe it!”

One officer, known for his heavy drinking, popped his bottle open immediately—and after one taste, he couldn’t help shouting in amazement. His reaction sparked curiosity all around as others uncorked their bottles and took their own sips.

“Good Lord, this flavor, this aroma—it feels like I’m drinking whiskey!”
“No, no, this isn’t whiskey—it tastes just like Kentucky bourbon!”
“Is this really moonshine? If it weren’t for the blank bottle, I’d swear this was some new high-end brand!”
“Incredible—I can even taste a hint of brandy in this!”

The room filled with excited chatter and astonished praise. Even Deputy Graf, hearing the commotion, stepped inside and opened one of his bottles. One sip was all it took for him to understand the fuss.

From his office, Sheriff Malloy listened to the growing noise. Curiosity finally got the better of him. He picked up one of the bottles on his desk, pulled the cork, and immediately a strong, rich aroma filled the room.

As someone who drank fine liquor regularly, he recognized quality the moment he smelled it.

Taking a sip, he was struck by the smoothness—none of the harsh burn common in cheap spirits. Instead, it was mellow and full-bodied, warming his chest as it went down. There was even a faint sweetness lingering on his tongue.

It was clean, pure, and left no bitter aftertaste—just a crisp, satisfying finish.

“Three hundred dollars a month…” Malloy murmured. “Maybe that’s a bit low.”

He quickly realized just how big this opportunity was. If Davey could keep producing moonshine of this caliber, the profits would be enormous—without question.

But remembering that Davey had promised even greater rewards once the business expanded, Sheriff Malloy leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grin.

Chapter Text

Moonshine—illegal liquor distilled under the cover of night—was also known as “moonlight liquor.”

The moonshine that Davey produced easily crushed all competition. It was every bit as fine as whiskey, brandy, or rum. Its distinctive sweetness suited the tastes of people across the United States perfectly, and the moment it hit the shelves, it took Valentine by storm.

Over four hundred bottles sold out completely in just three hours.

A portion of those sales came from Donal’s own men. He sold to them at $1.80 a bottle—essentially the group-buying rate for a team of twenty.

For them, getting such high-quality moonshine at that price was an incredible deal. Most of Donal’s men were loafers who already knew every drunkard in Valentine. Donal even allowed customers to taste before buying. If they thought a sip wasn’t worth two dollars, they didn’t have to pay.

And in Valentine, Donal could afford to be that confident. Before Davey showed up, his crew already held the most power in town—no one dared to cross them lightly.

But one sip was all it took to know the new moonshine was worth every cent.

Because it sold so quickly—and four hundred bottles simply weren’t enough—the entire stock was gone before Donal even had the chance to promote the group-buy discount.

Worse yet, word spread fast. More people came asking to buy, but Donal had nothing left to sell.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “That’s a massive loss.”

Even after nightfall, people were still coming by to ask for more, and it tore at him to turn them away. All he could see were stacks of dollar bills slipping through his fingers.

Still, in just a few short hours, after deducting Davey’s share, Donal had made $139.50 in pure profit. It was only the beginning, and he’d never imagined money could come this easily.

The problem was the distillery had run out of bottles, and the next shipment of glass containers wouldn’t arrive until the day after tomorrow.

Determined to keep the profits flowing, Donal gathered his men and scoured every corner of Valentine for empty bottles.

Then, a clever idea struck him—why not start a bottle buyback program?

He offered five cents for every empty bottle. Naturally, no one refused.

For most people, an empty bottle was useless.

By that very night, Donal had hauled nearly two thousand empty bottles to the cellar, even though it cost him around a hundred dollars to collect them.

“Oh, good Lord, Mr. Donal,” Benedict groaned when he saw the pile. “Are you trying to work me to death? There’s no way I can bottle that many tonight. Unless, of course, you plan to help me—after I finish mixing the liquor, that is.”

Benedict had been planning to take a break in town, but Donal had just dumped an enormous workload on him.

Mixing the batches wasn’t hard, but bottling two thousand bottles? That was pure labor.

“Of course, Benedict,” Donal said with a grin. “Leave the hard work to us.”

With two trusted men beside him, Donal waited for Benedict to finish blending the moonshine before they started bottling through the night.

To Donal and his men, that wasn’t liquor flowing from the barrels—it was pure money.

They worked harder and faster than ever, driven by the sight of every bottle filling up like stacks of cash.

...

Horseshoe Overlook Camp

When Arthur read Mary’s letter, his heart stirred with emotion.

Once he saw her address, he didn’t hesitate—he saddled his horse and rode straight toward Chadwick Farm, north of Valentine.

But he didn’t get far before turning back to camp.

He changed into a cleaner, more presentable outfit, shaved his beard, and tidied himself up as best he could. Once he felt ready, he mounted up again and spurred his horse forward, pushing it hard without a care for its stamina. All he wanted was to see Mary as soon as possible.

Though Arthur had once been married and even had a child, deep down, the woman he loved most had always been his first love—Mary.

Years ago, her family’s disapproval had forced them apart, and even after all that time, he realized that he’d never truly moved on.

His horse galloped swiftly, but to Arthur, it never felt fast enough.

At last, he reached Chadwick Farm, north of Valentine. After asking a ranch hand for directions, he found out exactly which house Mary lived in.

He dismounted in front of the modest farmhouse, straightened his clothes, and walked to the door, his heart pounding with nerves, hope, and fear all at once.

He knocked.

The door opened—but it wasn’t Mary. Instead, a woman holding a shotgun stood before him.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Arthur said quickly. “Didn’t mean to intrude. I’m looking for Mrs. Linton.”

“I’ll check,” the woman replied, shutting the door.

Moments later, it opened again—and this time, Arthur froze.

Standing before him was the woman he had thought about for years—Mary.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

A week later, Davey returned with five gold bars.

What amused and surprised him was discovering that during those seven days, Donal had already earned over five thousand dollars for him.

“Mr. Callander, here’s the ledger. I’ve kept all the money in this chest,” Donal said respectfully, handing over the ledger, the locked money box, and its key.

Inside the house, Davey flipped through the ledger, which recorded every expense and income in neat, meticulous detail. Then he opened the chest and counted the money inside—over six thousand dollars in total.

It didn’t take long for him to understand: Donal had been covering all the production costs out of his own pocket and hadn’t taken a single cent for himself.

Davey immediately pulled out $1,260 and handed it to him.
“This is what you’ve earned. You shouldn’t have to pay the costs yourself.”

When Donal received his $1,260, he couldn’t hide his excitement. He had never made that much money in one go before.

Back when he was dealing illegal medicine, his monthly profits only came to a few hundred dollars. After paying off the police and sending Colm his cut, he’d be lucky to keep three hundred for himself. Between maintaining his crew and daily expenses, he could barely save anything. It had taken him nearly two years of scraping together money just to buy this house.

But now—he’d earned $1,260 in just seven days. It was something he’d never dared dream of.
Faster than robbery, and a whole lot safer.

“Looks like six hundred bottles a day is about the most we can move in Valentine,” Davey said after some thought. “It’s time we expanded.”

“Sheriff Hanley in Strawberry is a friend of mine. Take a few trustworthy men there and start selling our moonshine.”
“Same approach as before—first, gift a few bottles to the local sheriff’s office, then begin sales in the usual way.”
“Strawberry is a dry town, so keep a low profile. See if you can recruit some reliable locals while you’re there. Our operation’s growing—we’ll need more hands.”
“And here in Valentine, bring in a few more men as well. We can’t depend solely on the police for protection.”

Valentine was a fairly prosperous cattle town with a permanent population of around five thousand and plenty of drifters passing through. Still, not everyone could afford expensive liquor every day. For most working men, buying a bottle every three days was already a stretch.

After all, they had families to support, wives and children to care for, and other expenses besides drink. Even so, a bottle every three days—at $1.85 a pop—already took up nearly half a month’s wages for some.

So, no matter how fine Davey’s moonshine was, the Valentine market had reached its limit.

“Mr. Callander,” Donal said, “there’s something else. Because our moonshine is cheaper and tastes just as good as the branded stuff—in fact, many people like it even better than whiskey or brandy—the saloons in Valentine have gone dead quiet. Nobody’s buying their liquor anymore.”

“Of course, neither the Old Saloon nor Smithfield Saloon dares oppose us, and Sheriff Malloy certainly won’t help them.”
“But Mr. Field from Smithfield’s and Mr. Jos from the Old Saloon have asked to meet you. They want to discuss a partnership.”
“If this keeps up, both saloons might go under.”

Donal spoke with a grin.

Their moonshine had swallowed the market whole. Most of Valentine’s drinkers and drunks now bought from them directly, leaving the saloons deserted. Apart from the occasional traveler, no one went there to drink anymore.

The two saloon owners were getting desperate. Their only hope was to start selling Davey’s moonshine through their establishments—otherwise, they’d soon be out of business.

They had approached Donal first, but he’d told them only Davey could approve such a deal.

Davey nodded thoughtfully. “It’ll cut into our profits a little, but there’s no need to push others into ruin. Our business isn’t limited to Valentine.”
“Tell them this, Donal—tonight, I’ll be waiting for them at Wells Restaurant.”

Davey might have held the upper hand in Valentine, but monopolizing the liquor trade outright would only breed resentment. The small bars weren’t much of a concern, but men who could open large saloons in Valentine had their own networks and influence. They were people of standing in the town.

In truth, Davey had already planned to bring the saloons into his business eventually. He’d known his moonshine would sell well—but not this well. Reaching such heights in just seven days was beyond even his expectations.

Now, with the five gold bars worth about three thousand dollars and over five thousand from moonshine profits,
Davey’s fortune had risen to more than eight thousand dollars in total.

Chapter Text

Wells Restaurant.

"Here's to a successful partnership."

Davey raised his glass, and across from him, Field and Jos quickly lifted theirs as well. The negotiations went smoothly, without any hiccups.

Davey agreed to supply the two saloons with his moonshine at $1.60 per bottle—a deal that promised a handsome profit for them.

In truth, most premium liquors didn’t yield large margins. For example, a bottle of whiskey cost $2 wholesale, while the retail price was only $2.50. Still, saloons didn’t sell by the bottle but by the glass. A single glass of whiskey went for fifty cents, and one bottle could pour about six glasses—seven if the bartender was clever with his pour. Some saloons even diluted their liquor to stretch profits further.

Aside from supplying them, Davey made one specific demand: his moonshine could not be watered down, and the price per glass couldn’t exceed thirty-five cents.

Faced with Davey’s intimidating presence, the two saloon owners had no choice but to agree. They understood perfectly—Davey wasn’t just selling liquor; he was claiming a share of the market and driving up overall sales.

As established figures in Valentine, both men were well aware of their ties to Sheriff Malloy. Just a few days earlier, Field had gone to the sheriff’s office, hoping Malloy would help crack down on moonshine sales.

But Malloy had refused outright, warning him not to provoke people beyond his reach.

From the sheriff, Field learned that the once-dominant O'Driscoll Gang members in Valentine were now all working under Davey.

Though Davey’s terms were tough, the $1.60 price per bottle showed clear goodwill. This was a proper business partnership—not exploitation.

After securing the two saloon owners, Davey began planning to acquire legitimate businesses in Valentine. The money from moonshine was dirty—illegal and untaxed by the United States government.

If Davey wanted to reach a larger stage, bootlegging alone wouldn’t cut it. He needed legal businesses to conceal his real operations.

Moonshine profits were black money, and he needed a way to wash them clean. Fortunately, that wouldn’t be too difficult.

Beyond laundering money, his first task was to clean up his identity.

Even if wanted lists weren’t shared across continents, the fact remained—he was still a wanted man. And no bank would ever grant a loan to a fugitive.

Davey needed a legitimate identity.

In the money-driven United States, that wasn’t too big a problem. Sheriff Malloy likely had the right connections to make it happen.

...

Meanwhile, Arthur couldn’t bring himself to refuse Mary’s request. For the woman he once loved deeply—his first love—helping her was the only choice.

When he learned that Mary’s husband had died, a faint spark of hope stirred in his heart.

Mary’s brother, Jamie, had fallen under the sway of a cult. Arthur tracked him down, talked sense into him, and brought him back to Mary.

Eventually, at the train station, Arthur saw Mary and her brother off.

The next morning, after spending the night in a cheap room in Valentine, Arthur woke and wrote in his journal:

I feel... like the luckiest man alive...
And yet I feel like a fool.
That woman drives me crazy. No one else could twist me around her finger like she does.
I keep telling myself I won’t be that foolish again, but...
For some reason, I think I still might.

Closing the journal, Arthur felt a wave of sadness wash over him. He decided to head to the saloon for a drink.

“Hey, mister! Want some moonshine? Best stuff around—better than whiskey or brandy!”

“And it’s only two bucks, sir.”

Arthur turned toward the voice and saw a boy, no more than fourteen, holding a bottle of clear, label-free moonshine.

“Oh, moonshine that’s as good as whiskey or brandy, huh? Why should I believe you, kid?”

Arthur’s mood lightened a little as he teased the boy.

“Sir, you can take a sip first. If it’s not as good as I say, you don’t have to pay. But I should warn you—this is Mr. Donal’s territory. If you try to skip out, it won’t end well.”

The boy handed him the bottle confidently. He wasn’t worried—this moonshine had a strong reputation in Valentine. Not far away, several of Mr. Donal’s men lingered, watching. A single shout from the boy would bring help in seconds. Even the patrolling officers turned a blind eye—they protected the business.

“Alright then, I’ll give it a try. But if it’s not as good as you claim, kid, you’re not getting a single cent from me.”

Arthur took the bottle, uncorked it, and drank a sip. His eyes widened slightly.

The taste was excellent—every bit as good as whiskey or brandy, maybe even sweeter and smoother.

He took another sip, then pulled four dollars from his pocket.

“Kid, get me another bottle.”

Arthur planned to bring one back to camp for Uncle to try.

Uncle was a drunk, but the gang couldn’t keep supplying him with strong liquor forever—he’d drink the coffers dry. Still, a drunk’s gotta drink, and every so often, Arthur would bring him a bottle.

This moonshine was good stuff, and at two dollars a bottle, it was well worth the price. Naturally, Arthur thought of the old man.

To Arthur, everyone in the gang—except that damned rat—was like family.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Valentine Police Department, Sheriff’s Office.

“Mr. Callander, even though we’ve never discussed it openly, I know who you are.”

“The Blackwater robbery caused a huge stir—not just in West Elizabeth, but across New Hanover and Lemoyne as well.”

“That was a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, after all. What you and your gang did sparked massive public outrage. Every bounty hunter in the country is keeping an eye out, eager to bring you in.”

“But I’ve got to admit—the Van der Linde Gang carries a lot of weight out West. Not many bounty hunters have the guts to go head-to-head with the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

“Because of the political games between the higher-ups, the patchwork of state laws, and how the big labor unions are targeting the Pinkertons, you’ve managed to stay out of trouble for now.”

“But clearing your name… that’s another story. The big men upstairs will never sign off on that.”

Sheriff Malloy sighed as he spoke to Davey.

For ordinary killers or robbers, things were different. Many of them could join the U.S. Marshals and have their records wiped clean. Some even paid hefty bribes to destroy their criminal files completely.

But the Blackwater incident was far too big. Beyond the $150,000, the Van der Linde Gang had slaughtered countless officers, Pinkerton agents, federal marshals, and even innocent civilians during their escape.

Even if Davey paid the full amount to plug the hole, public outrage alone would make the situation impossible to fix. No official wanted to take that risk. If such a cover-up ever came to light, it would spark fury among the people—and give political opponents a perfect weapon to use against them.

Davey wasn’t surprised that Sheriff Malloy knew all this. In fact, he knew that even if Malloy discovered the Van der Linde Gang hiding out in Valentine, as long as they kept quiet, the sheriff wouldn’t intervene.

It might sound absurd, but that’s how the law worked in the United States—complicated, full of loopholes, and weighed down by history.

The U.S. had once been a collection of British colonies. Each of the thirteen colonies was an independent entity under direct English rule.

After the Revolutionary War, the United States of America was formed, but each state retained a great deal of autonomy—its own legislature, executive branch, constitution, laws, and citizenship. States governed their own finances, taxes, culture, education, and other public affairs.

The division of power between the federal government and the states was defined by the U.S. Constitution. And when federal and state laws clashed, federal law took precedence.

In this era, $150,000 was enough to shock the entire nation. The Van der Linde affair had already reached federal attention, and Sheriff Malloy understood the full weight of it.

Yet Davey’s expression didn’t change. He had already thought through how to handle it.

Then, Sheriff Malloy heard him say calmly, “What does the robbery committed by Davey Callander have to do with me?”

Sheriff Malloy froze.

It took him a moment to process what he’d just heard—then it clicked.

“So, Mr. Callander, what you’re saying is… you want to create a completely new identity?”

The sheriff actually thought it was a brilliant idea. Setting up a new record wasn’t all that difficult—it was quite straightforward, really.

It was no different from how immigrants got legal papers in the United States.

At present, countless people entered the country illegally or through other channels, trying to make a living. And rather than cracking down harshly, the United States practically welcomed it.

More people meant more voters—and more voters meant more taxes. Many mid-level officials even made a fortune processing such identities.

Davey nodded. He didn’t need much—just a legal identity that would allow him to own property and conduct business openly.

Of course, it carried some risk. If anyone managed to prove that he was actually Davey Callander, the outlaw behind the Blackwater heist, they could still bring charges against him.

But that would require solid evidence.

“This won’t be too difficult,” Sheriff Malloy said. “It’ll cost around three thousand dollars, and I can get you a new identity.”

Davey frowned slightly.

Three thousand wasn’t much to him—but under normal circumstances, setting up a new legal identity only cost a few hundred dollars, five hundred at most.

Was Sheriff Malloy trying to take advantage of him, thinking he was easy money?

Seeing Davey’s expression darken, Malloy quickly explained, “Mr. Callander, the money’s not for me. A standard identity really does cost just a few hundred. But in your case... certain things can’t simply be hidden from everyone.”

Chapter Text

Even though Davey was applying for a completely new identity, his original one could still be traced easily. After all, almost anything could be forged—but not photographs.

Officials could always look the other way, of course—provided they were paid enough.

That was Davey’s advantage. If it had been Dutch trying to pull this off, it wouldn’t have even been worth considering. It would’ve been impossible.

In the United States, especially when it came to organized crime, the greatest responsibility always fell on the gang leader.

After hearing Sheriff Malloy’s explanation, Davey quickly understood the situation and smiled.

“Then I’ll trouble you, Sheriff Malloy. I’ll have Donal send the money over soon. I just hope the new identity can be processed as quickly as possible.”

Sheriff Malloy returned the smile. “Of course. Following the proper channels, Mr. Callander’s legal documents should be ready within five days at most.”

“This time, we’ll process it through immigration. Mr. Callander will be registered as a descendant of European nobility—but that means you’ll have to take a new surname.”

In the United States, sharing first names was common—names like Davey were everywhere. But surnames were another matter entirely. It was rare to find two people with the same one.

“Let’s go with Land. Davey Land.”

Davey said casually.

Sheriff Malloy chuckled helplessly. “Well, Mr. Callander, you certainly don’t fuss over details.”

Even though Davey Callander and Davey Land differed by only one word, no one could ever prove they were the same man.

Even if it went to court, no judge would back such a claim.

The United States was, after all, a country built on evidence.

Securing a legitimate identity was a huge step forward for Davey. Only with it could he legally own more businesses and properties.

And Sheriff Malloy, who had served as Valentine’s sheriff for many years, clearly had the right connections to make it happen.

The paperwork for Davey’s new identity was submitted quickly.

When the clerk looked at Davey’s photo, the corners of his mouth twitched. This was... a little too on the nose.

But what did that matter? A resemblance couldn’t be considered evidence of guilt. You couldn’t arrest someone just because they looked like a wanted man—the United States was a place that demanded proof.

Of course, none of them would ever admit that it was the thick wad of bills that made them overlook the similarities.

...

While Davey waited for his legal papers to come through, Donal took a few men to Strawberry Town to start up their moonshine operation.

Following their usual playbook, Donal first sent a batch of moonshine to the Strawberry Town Police Department.

That alone was enough to win over the entire station.

Compared to the relatively prosperous Valentine, Strawberry Town’s economy was much weaker. Once famous during the gold rush, it had since become nothing more than a logging town.

And with Prohibition in effect, the town had lost a huge source of tax revenue.

In this era, tobacco and alcohol were two of the biggest contributors to government income.

Mayor Timmins of Strawberry Town had long dreamed of turning the area into a tourist destination to revive the local economy.

Davey’s moonshine business fit right in—and flourished immediately.

Strawberry was tiny, with fewer than two thousand residents. Tourism was still in its early stages and hadn’t shown much success yet.

There were no rival gangs in town either, so after bribing Sheriff Hanley, Donal’s crew faced almost no resistance.

Still, because the town was so small, daily sales weren’t particularly high.

Within three days of arriving, Donal had already captured the entire moonshine market in Strawberry through bulk discounts and word of mouth.

At $1.80 per bottle, the moonshine rivaled the quality of fine whiskey—a godsend for local drinkers.

Currently, Strawberry was moving about two hundred bottles a day, sometimes even fewer—that was the town’s limit.

But even so, that meant roughly $200 in daily profit for Davey.

Combined with Valentine’s numbers, Davey’s total daily income now exceeded $1,000.

It was an astounding figure—one that would make even wealthy industrialists in the United States take notice.

And the best part? Davey didn’t have to pay a single cent in alcohol taxes.

Prohibition was a strange law. Selling or transporting alcohol was illegal—but buying and drinking it were not.

So, each night, Donal’s men would roam the streets, openly selling moonshine.

The townsfolk bought it eagerly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

It was barely different from selling it in broad daylight.

Even the patrolling officers pretended not to see.

Perhaps the only one unhappy about the situation was the owner of Strawberry’s general store.

He brewed his own moonshine on the side, but his product couldn’t hold a candle to Davey’s—it wasn’t even close.

“Damn it! Why’d these outsiders have to come in and steal all my business?” he cursed.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

The owner of Strawberry Town’s general store was a miserly man.

He spent his days cursing the town butcher, whose stall stood at the most prominent spot right at Strawberry’s entrance. Because of that, his own meat sales had plummeted—most folks preferred to buy their meat from the butcher.

Moonshine was only a side business for him, but thanks to Prohibition, it was far more profitable than the store itself.

Of course, his way of doing business was nothing like Davey’s, who had the local police in his pocket.

Even when he brewed a fresh batch of moonshine, he never sold it all at once. He only sold to a few trusted old friends.

Even so, it earned him a tidy profit each month.

“Those damn bastards—working hand in hand with the police. Do those officers all go blind at night?”

“They’ve got people selling moonshine all over town—hell, right outside my store!”

“They take the taxpayers’ money and don’t lift a finger!”

“Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! I have to do something to stop them!”

The grocer, Chip, soon came up with a plan.

Historically, the United States wouldn’t pass the official Prohibition Act for another twenty years, but temperance movements had already been spreading across the country for nearly half a century.

The earliest advocates were Puritans who had immigrated from England. They believed alcohol was the root of all sin and should be outlawed.

Later, the rise of the women’s movement gave the temperance campaign even greater momentum.

Rampant male drinking had led to widespread violence, and since most men spent their earnings on liquor, women came to despise alcohol altogether.

Strawberry Town had enacted its own Prohibition laws largely because many Puritans lived there. Mayor Timmins had been elected with their strong support.

And now, Chip decided to use that to his advantage.

Having lived in Strawberry for years, he had his share of Puritan friends. Gathering a few of them, he went to see Mayor Timmins, hoping the man would take action to drive the outsiders away.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Chip,” the mayor said, “but you know Strawberry is a tourist town. I don’t have the authority to expel anyone. If they’ve broken the law, that’s the police department’s responsibility.”

“Perhaps you should file a report with the sheriff.”

Although Timmins had spearheaded Strawberry’s Prohibition policy, he wasn’t a Puritan himself.

In fact, he had taken quite an interest in the new moonshine business—or rather, he was one of its best customers.

He’d bought ten bottles in one go, enough to qualify for the bulk-purchase discount.

So why would he want to chase off the moonshiners? That wasn’t in his interest—or his authority.

Chip was clearly unhappy with the response, but he had no argument against it.

“Maybe we could get federal prohibition agents to come in and arrest them,” one of the Puritans suggested.

Selling moonshine was, after all, illegal. But in a small place like Strawberry, there weren’t any such agents around.

Chip didn’t like that idea one bit—he feared that if federal agents showed up, he’d be caught up in the mess too.

Plenty of people in town already knew about his own moonshine operation.

Still, at this point, it was the only real option left.

So, Chip and a few of his Puritan friends wrote a letter to the federal authorities, reporting the illegal moonshine trade in Strawberry Town.

...

Donal knew nothing of this. He was busy dealing with another problem—the Strawberry Town Police Department.

Sheriff Hanley had grown greedy. After seeing how popular Davey’s moonshine had become, his monthly salary of three hundred dollars suddenly seemed pitiful.

Worse yet, he had to share a hundred of that with his officers. The thought made his blood boil.

So, he summoned Donal to his office and demanded a bigger monthly cut.

“Mr. Donal, you must understand,” Hanley began, “your business is having quite an impact on Strawberry Town.”

“Several residents have already filed complaints with the department—and I’ve personally suppressed every one of them.”

“But my men are under a lot of pressure, and so am I. If I keep turning a blind eye like this, when the election comes at the end of the year, I might not be re-elected.”

In small towns, sheriffs could either be appointed or elected. Elected sheriffs weren’t federal officials—they served at the will of the townsfolk.

Sheriff Hanley was the latter. He had to run for re-election every year, and keeping his seat meant keeping the voters happy.

“So, Sheriff Hanley,” Donal asked bluntly, “how much money do you think is appropriate?”

He knew perfectly well what all of Hanley’s talk really meant—money.

The sheriff didn’t hesitate. He spread his palm wide and held up five fingers.

“Five hundred dollars? Sheriff, have you lost your damn mind? Even Sheriff Malloy in Valentine doesn’t ask for that much!”

Chapter Text

Donal hadn’t expected Sheriff Hanley to be so greedy.

Five hundred dollars—while not a huge sum for their business—was still a hefty demand. They had barely been operating in Strawberry for a few days, not even a full week.

If Donal agreed too easily now, Hanley would surely demand even more the following month.

“No, no, no, Mr. Donal. Five hundred dollars might sound like a lot to most folks, but for you? That’s not much, is it?”

“As long as you’re willing to pay that, I can guarantee your moonshine business will run without a hitch here in Strawberry.”

Sheriff Hanley lit a cigar, speaking with confidence.

Donal didn’t answer right away.

The money wasn’t his to give—it was Davey’s. He couldn’t make that kind of decision on Davey’s behalf.

“Sheriff Hanley, I can’t make this call on my own. I’ll have to report it to Mr. Callander.”

“If he agrees, then I have no problem with it.”

With Strawberry’s daily sales of around two hundred bottles of moonshine, Donal earned about thirty cents per bottle—roughly eighteen hundred dollars a month in profit.

Of course, that was before paying his crew and covering transport costs, which still left him with nearly a thousand dollars in his own pocket.

Davey’s share, naturally, was even greater.

Truth be told, whether it was three hundred or five hundred dollars, it wasn’t a large amount in the grand scheme of things.

“I look forward to hearing good news from you, Mr. Donal,” Sheriff Hanley said with a smile, certain that Davey would make the “right” choice.

...

The next day, after returning to Valentine, Donal reported everything to Davey.

Davey frowned slightly.

He’d always known Sheriff Hanley was greedy—but he hadn’t expected the man to lose patience this quickly.

If he’d known things would turn out this way, he might’ve replaced Strawberry’s entire police department when he went to rescue Micah.

“Give it to him,” Davey said coolly. His voice carried no emotion, but in his mind, Sheriff Hanley had already been added to his list of people to deal with.

Five hundred dollars wasn’t much. Davey had even planned to raise both Hanley’s and Sheriff Malloy’s monthly cut to that amount in another month or two.

But offering it voluntarily was one thing—being extorted was another.

Hanley was clearly trying to use the moonshine business as leverage, to threaten him.

And with men like that, one bribe would never be enough. There would always be a next time—and another after that.

Greed was a bottomless pit.

Still, Davey needed time to grow stronger.

That same day, the paperwork Sheriff Malloy had arranged finally arrived through the post office—Davey’s new legal identity was official.

He could now buy property and apply for bank loans under the name Davey Land.

“As you command, Mr. Callander.” Donal wanted to say more, but seeing the cold look on Davey’s face, he kept silent.

Davey took out a thousand dollars and handed it to him. “Since Mr. Hanley gets five hundred, Sheriff Malloy shouldn’t get any less. Next time you deliver the liquor, give this to him.”

Compared to Hanley, Davey found working with Sheriff Malloy much more pleasant.

That was likely why Malloy had managed to stay in office for over a decade. Sure, he liked his share of cash—but he knew where to draw the line.

...

Horseshoe Overlook Camp.

When Arthur returned, he handed the moonshine to Uncle.

After taking a sip, Uncle’s eyes widened. “Now that is one hell of a drink! Arthur, mind telling me where you got it?”

“This has to be something new. Whoever brewed it put real heart into it, and yet they’re just selling it as plain moonshine.”

“In my book, it’s even better than whiskey.”

Arthur chuckled. “It does taste damn good. Folks in Valentine are selling this stuff all over town. I’ve no idea who’s behind it.”

He paused mid-sentence, suddenly thinking of Davey.

He knew Davey had been planning to get into the moonshine trade. With so much of it flooding Valentine now, it was obvious Davey had a hand in it.

“This fine stuff must cost, what, two-fifty a bottle?” Uncle asked between gulps.

Arthur replied, “No—it’s only two bucks.”

Uncle looked pleasantly surprised. “Oh-ho, that’s one tempting price.”

Not that it made much difference to him—he didn’t have any money anyway.

After chatting with the old man for a bit, Arthur went to find Dutch to deliver the cosmetics Molly had asked him to buy.

Molly O’Shea, Dutch’s lover, came from a wealthy family in Dublin. She’d met Dutch while seeking adventure in the United States and ended up joining the Van der Linde gang.

In truth, Molly didn’t get along with most of the gang. Aside from Dutch, Arthur was about the only one she really talked to.

He often helped her bring things back from town, and she always paid him—both for the goods and for his trouble.

Since the Callander brothers were no longer taking on debt collection work, Strauss had turned to Arthur for help with the job.

Arthur didn’t like that kind of work—but he didn’t refuse either.

Chapter Text

“Davey, if I hadn’t seen it myself, I’d never have believed it—you’ve changed so much.”

“It’s unbelievable. I heard back at the oil fields that everyone’s been buying bootleg liquor, so I got curious and bought a bottle too.”

“That young bootleg seller actually told me that if ten people bought together, the $2 bottles would only cost $1.80 each.”

“Oh, what a brilliant idea! I was so curious about whoever came up with it that I asked where the liquor was mainly being sold.”

“Of course, I got the answer I wanted—Valentine. So, I came back here again.”

“I searched all over for information about it, and even at the Saloon, they were selling it openly. Every table, every customer—everyone had one of those bottles in hand.”

“I ran into Micah and asked him about it. He was drunk, but clearly in good spirits, especially with two lovely ladies sitting beside him.”

“He’s the one who told me, Davey—oh, Davey, that all of this was your doing. You can’t imagine how shocked I was when I heard that. I nearly spat my drink right in Micah’s face.”

Inside Donal’s cabin, Trelawny went on and on, gesturing wildly as he laughed in that dramatic way of his.
Davey could only sit there in silence—he’d been listening to the man talk for almost twenty minutes straight.

Josiah Trelawny was a natural talker, the kind who couldn’t help but command a room.
As the Van der Linde Gang’s information broker, he rarely stayed at camp and was always appearing and disappearing like smoke.
He might not have looked important, but his role in the gang was undeniable.

“Alright, Mr. Trelawny, maybe you should take a sip of that coffee on the table first,” Davey said, rubbing his temples.
“All this talking of yours is starting to give me a headache.”

“Alright, Davey, as you wish.” Trelawny knew when to stop. He obediently lifted the cup and took a sip.

“So, you came all the way here today just to reminisce about the old days?” Davey asked with a faint smile.
He knew full well that Trelawny hadn’t come just for small talk.

“As far as I know, Davey, you haven’t left the gang, have you? I haven’t heard anything about that from anyone else,” Trelawny said.

Davey nodded. “That’s right, Trelawny. I haven’t left the gang yet.”

“Sure, I’ve been disappointed with some of the gang’s choices lately, but after eight years, it’s hard to just walk away. Besides, I’m not planning to start a new gang—I just want to focus on running my business properly.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Trelawny, you can start calling me by my new name—Davey Land.”

At that, Trelawny immediately understood: Davey had obtained legal papers.
It didn’t surprise him. He knew just how profitable the moonshine trade was, and how Davey’s operation had come to dominate Valentine and the surrounding towns.
Without having to pay the steep alcohol taxes, Davey must have been making a fortune.

“Congratulations, Mr. Land. I never imagined that in just a few short weeks, you’d achieve all this. It’s truly beyond my expectations.”
“If you could, I’d like to ask a small favor—just a little something for an old acquaintance like me.” Trelawny’s smile turned disarmingly polite.

Davey turned, opened a cabinet, and took out a cigar, though he didn’t smoke himself.
After handing it to Trelawny, he asked, “So, Mr. Trelawny, what exactly is it that you want from me?”

Trelawny’s tone brightened with excitement. “The sales rights to your moonshine, Davey. If possible, I’d like to secure the distribution rights for your product in other regions.”

“I’ve tasted your moonshine—it’s absolutely intoxicating. No real drinker could ever refuse it. In my opinion, not even whiskey or brandy can compare.”

“It’s a brand-new flavor, something that will soon sweep across the entire United States.”

Trelawny had a sharp instinct for business. His work gathering intelligence had taken him to many places and exposed him to all sorts of cultures and customs.
He enjoyed drinking, though never excessively—he always preferred keeping his mind clear.
After all, his best information often came from those who weren’t sober.

The secret behind Davey’s sudden success was the unique “sweet” flavor of his moonshine.
That distinct taste, paired with a low price, had allowed him to seize the market and make a fortune.

Naturally, Trelawny wanted in on that profit. Why else would he be working so tirelessly?
If he could secure the distribution rights to Davey’s moonshine, he knew exactly what that would mean—
a flood of money heading straight his way.

Chapter Text

“Trelawny, I don’t care about moonshine distribution rights. Even if I handed one to you, where would you sell it? Valentine, Strawberry Town—they’re already saturated with my moonshine. The farms in New Hanover, the oil-field hands, the ranch workers—they’re all buying mine now.”

“Do you plan to take it to Annesburg, Van Horn Trade Port, or even New Austin and Lemore?”

“Trust me, that wouldn’t be a smart move. You’d likely lose your life trying.”

Bootlegging isn’t something you jump into willy-nilly. There are a lot of gang interests tangled up in it. Valentine used to be O’Driscoll territory, their stronghold centered at Six-Point Cabin, until Arthur and the others leveled it. Since the Van der Linde Gang hit Blackwater, their reputation has carried across the West; a lot of Davey’s success in moonshine comes from that terrifying name alone.

Small gangs won’t touch you, and the bigger ones whose bases are elsewhere generally won’t pick a fight. But sell on another gang’s turf and be ready to be eaten alive.

“All right, Davey, maybe I was overthinking it. But money’s getting harder to come by—robberies barely bring in much anymore.”

“I was wondering if you had any work for me. Could be a way to earn some coin.”

Trelawny was clever. He knew pitching moonshine elsewhere was near impossible—and honestly, he didn’t really want to run the trade. He’d tossed out the big ask only to follow with a smaller request.

Davey saw through it at once and smiled. “There actually is something I need your help with, Trelawny.”

“I’m planning to open a cake shop and a café in Valentine, but I’m short on baking equipment, pastry chefs, and baristas.”

“If you can find them, I’ll pay you well.”

“And I want top-quality gear and the best people—don’t bring me some apprentices to patch things together. Convincing them is on you.”

“We’re friends, so I won’t let you walk away empty-handed, even if you don’t manage it.”

“Here—$200. Consider it a deposit and travel and lodging money. Bottom line: I need the best pastry chefs and baristas.”

Davey set two wallets on the table to show he meant business. Paying up front was a favor given to a friend.

Now that he had legal papers, Davey was moving into legitimate enterprises; a cake shop and café made a fine front. Places like that wouldn’t normally exist in a livestock town like Valentine—those belonged in cities—but he didn’t mind running at a loss. He needed respectable storefronts to launder cash. With the moonshine operation expanding, daily income kept climbing—he’d pulled in over $1,800 just yesterday. Beyond the two small towns, the trade was already spreading to oil fields, factories, ranches, and farms.

“Trust me, Davey. I can find people you’ll be happy with. I’ve got the connections for this.”

“People will come—if you pay them right.”

Trelawny slipped the two wallets into his pocket and grinned. Two hundred dollars was a tidy sum for him, and if he delivered, there’d be more. As an information broker, he knew how to find the right folk.

Davey nodded. “Salary won’t be a problem. If they’re willing to come, I’ll pay them more than they’re making now.”

Though the main goal was laundering money, Davey wouldn’t complain about eating good pastries—having a private pastry chef wasn’t a bad deal.

...

“Oh, and one more thing, Davey—about Sean.”

“I’ve been digging up news on Sean MacGuire. The bounty hunters caught him, and he’s locked up in the Blackwater jail. The bounty’s already been collected—they’re planning to transfer him to a federal prison.”

“If they move him to a federal facility, rescuing the lad will be damn near impossible.”

“I’ve already told Dutch. He’s decided to try and rescue Sean during the transfer to the federal prison.”

“So, Davey—are you coming?” Trelawny asked.

Davey hesitated briefly, then shook his head. “No. I’m not going.”

“My situation’s different now. With the moonshine business, too many people are watching me; my movements are easy to trace. If I show up in Blackwater, the Pinkertons will notice and make the rescue a lot harder.”

“As for that bastard Sean—hell, take Mac with you. I honestly wonder when he’s finally going to die from some woman’s trouble.”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Davey and Trelawny headed to the saloon to find Mac.
All the way there, Trelawny talked endlessly, as if he couldn’t help himself.

“You know Cole Stoudemire, right? That arrogant, self-important bounty hunter? He leads a crew that takes contracts from the Federal government.”

“The ones who caught Sean MacGuire this time were his men. Greedy Stoudemire thought the government’s bounty wasn’t enough to share, so he demanded two thousand dollars up front.”

“Poor little Sean—he probably doesn’t even realize he’s worth that much.”

“Because of all the public noise over what happened in Blackwater—maybe because people couldn’t stop talking about that $150,000 bounty—the government’s been under heavy pressure. Not long ago, they made a deal with Stoudemire, paying him $1,500 for Sean.”

“Sean’s being sent to Saint Denis Prison. Once he gets there, they’ll hang him on the gallows. Maybe the Feds think that’ll help restore their reputation, so people will stop calling them useless.”

“There are plenty of U.S. marshals and Pinkerton detectives patrolling around Blackwater. We’ll have to wait until the transport ship’s far enough away before making our move.”

“That arrogant bastard Stoudemire’s in charge of the escort this time—he’s much easier to deal with than the marshals or Pinkertons.”

The name Cole Stoudemire had appeared only once in the game’s original story—when Trelawny was captured by bounty hunters. Clearly, he knew far more about the man than most.
As an information broker, Trelawny had his own special channels.

In the original timeline, when he sensed the Van der Linde Gang was on the brink of collapse, Trelawny left without hesitation—and that decision ultimately saved his life.

...

Before long, Davey and Trelawny arrived at the Smithfield Saloon.

“Mr. Callander.”
“Mr. Callander.”

As soon as they walked in, greetings echoed from all around.
Some of them were Donal’s men—Davey was their big boss. Others were locals who knew or had dealt with him before.

In truth, Davey now commanded more than fifty men, and that was even with Donal being selective about who he took in.

Trelawny, walking just behind him, finally realized the extent of Davey’s influence in Valentine.
Even the lawmen outside had saluted him as they passed the saloon door earlier.

“Oh, Mac, you bastard—can’t you show a little restraint?”

“Ladies, would you mind giving us a moment? I need to have a word with this fellow.”

At the table in the corner, Mac sat with two women clinging to him, hands wandering everywhere. Davey could only shake his head in disbelief.

As Davey’s twin brother, Mac was naturally the closest person to him.
But with more brawn than brains, Mac wasn’t exactly cut out for business.
Davey wouldn’t dream of sending him out to peddle moonshine.

Now that he was making money hand over fist, Davey didn’t care how much Mac spent. Whenever his brother needed cash, he’d just tell him to pick it up from Donal.

After years of living on the run, it was only natural to enjoy the comfort that came with stability and wealth. Davey had never tried to stop him before.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Mac in over a week—the man disappeared whenever the fun started. His bedroom in Donal’s house had been empty for days.

“Oh, Davey, my brother—it’s good to see you.”

The two women recognized Davey immediately. Once he spoke, they rose and slipped away without a word.
Deprived of his “comfort,” Mac finally lifted his head.

“Fuck, Mac, you bastard! You planning to die on a woman’s belly?”

“Starting now, you’re not touching a woman for at least five days. I’ll tell every lady in Valentine—if any of them so much as shares a hot cup of coffee with you during that time, she’ll answer to me.”

Davey’s voice rang through the saloon.
He wasn’t just warning Mac—he was warning every working girl in Valentine.

Mac, already pale and bleary-eyed from sleepless nights and too much indulgence, looked like a man drained dry by drink and women alike.

“Oh, come on, Davey! You can’t do this to me! We’re brothers! Can’t you let me enjoy myself a little longer?” Mac protested, raising his voice.

“I’m not planning to bury you, Mac.”

“Valentine isn’t the place for you right now. You need rest. Trelawny—take him back to camp.”

“Mac, I’m warning you—if I find out you snuck back here, I swear I’ll tie you up and hang you from the big tree at Valentine’s gate.”

Davey’s shout echoed through the room.
Mac could tell from his tone—his brother wasn’t joking.

Chapter Text

Mac followed Trelawny back to camp.
Even as he mounted his horse outside the saloon, it was clear he was struggling.
This was a man who once single-handedly fought off fifteen sailors, yet years of reckless indulgence in drink and women had completely drained him.

Fortunately, Sean MacGuire’s rescue wouldn’t take place for a few more days. Given Mac’s strong constitution, a couple of days of rest would have him back on his feet again.
Still, the sight made Davey cautious—he knew he’d have to start keeping his younger brother on a tighter leash from now on.

Davey hadn’t exaggerated about being under close watch. If he were to join the rescue operation, it would immediately attract the attention of the Pinkertons.
He wasn’t too worried about the mission itself, though. Cole Stoudemire might be infamous among bounty hunters, but compared to the Van der Linde Gang, he was nothing.
Across the entire West, the Van der Linde Gang was nearly unbeatable in small-scale skirmishes.

Even someone like Micah Bell—despised by many in the gang—was still a deadly sharpshooter, capable of taking down seven or eight men on his own.
Though Davey commanded more than fifty men now, their actual combat ability was laughably weak. Still, for ordinary townsfolk, that number alone made them a force to be reckoned with.

After sending off Mac and Trelawny, Davey called for Donal and headed with him to Chadwick Farm.
He had already arranged a meeting with Chadwick before obtaining his legal identity papers—he intended to buy the farm outright.

Chadwick Farm was the closest to Valentine, running successfully and featuring several solidly built houses.
Some of the extra homes were rented out—Arthur’s former lover, Mary, had once lived there.

“Mr. Donal, my father already told you our farm isn’t for sale. Please leave.”

A teenage boy, about seventeen, stood in front of the farmhouse door, blocking their way.
He was Chadwick’s eldest son, the future heir of the property.

Davey had sent Donal once before, but he’d been turned away.
So this time, Davey came in person.
He was determined to secure this farm—one way or another.
If things turned sour, he didn’t mind using less-than-gentle methods.

“This is my employer, Mr. Callander,” Donal said calmly. “I doubt Mr. Chadwick would refuse a meeting with him. Perhaps you could go tell your father Mr. Callander is here, young Chadwick.”

The boy looked at Davey—a man dressed sharply, carrying himself like someone from high society.
After a brief hesitation, he turned and went inside to inform his father.
He didn’t recognize the name Callander, but he knew better than to ignore someone like that.

Within minutes, the front door opened, and Chadwick himself stepped out.
“My apologies, Mr. Callander. I didn’t realize you’d come in person. Please, come inside.”

Chadwick greeted him warmly.
As a known drunk, there was no way he hadn’t heard of Mr. Callander—the name behind the finest moonshine bottles in his own home.

“Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Chadwick,” Davey said politely as he and Donal followed him inside.

Chadwick asked his son to leave the room so he could speak privately with Davey.

“Mr. Callander, I understand you want to buy my farm,” Chadwick began. “But as you know, it’s doing quite well. It brings me steady income every month, and the extra houses can be rented out.”

“I love this place. I’ve lived here for nearly twenty years. My son was born and raised here. Many of these houses were built with my own hands—I’m deeply attached to every piece of it.”

“So, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you, Mr. Callander.”

Davey nodded slightly. “I respect your feelings, Mr. Chadwick. But I have my own reasons for needing this property. I’m willing to offer six thousand dollars for it.”

Six thousand dollars was well above market value.
Typically, farms sold anywhere from a few hundred to a little over a thousand, depending on the land and location.
Even with its proximity to Valentine and strong operations, Chadwick Farm wouldn’t fetch more than three thousand.

The real value was in the buildings themselves. In Valentine, a two-story house went for about fifteen hundred to two thousand dollars. The main house, with its eight rooms, was worth around two thousand on its own.
The smaller houses were worth much less, putting the total value of the property around five thousand dollars.
Davey was offering six.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Callander,” Chadwick said after a pause. “Your offer is very fair—but I still don’t intend to sell.”

“Seven thousand.”

“Sorry...”

“Eight thousand.”

Chadwick fell silent.
At that price, he didn’t even know how to respond.

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

“Alright, Mr. Callander—eight thousand dollars is indeed an offer I can’t refuse.”

Chadwick lowered his head, a trace of defeat in his expression.
In these times, eight thousand dollars was an enormous sum, especially for a single family.
Though his farm was worth about five thousand, that was only its assessed value—very few people would actually pay that much.
While the farm ran steadily enough, it only brought in a few hundred dollars each month, and part of that went straight to paying off the bank loan.

“Mr. Chadwick, with this eight thousand dollars, you wouldn’t have to keep living out here in the rough West. You could move east—to Bean City, Angel City, the Federal City, or even the Big Apple.”

“You could buy a nice house or an apartment, give your children a proper education, and watch them grow into respected professionals—lawyers, doctors, men of standing.”

“Wouldn’t that be better than working this farm day after day, Mr. Chadwick?”

“Young Chadwick might even meet a lovely young lady in one of those big cities and start a family of his own. Believe me, he’d much prefer city life.”

Sensing Chadwick’s hesitation, Davey pressed gently but persuasively.
His words struck the mark—Chadwick’s resolve began to waver.

“Alright, Mr. Callander,” Chadwick finally said, sighing. “I think you’re right. Compared to a small place like Valentine, maybe it’s time I let young Chadwick go to a bigger city. That’s where his future truly lies.”

In the room next door, young Chadwick had been eavesdropping the whole time.
When he heard Davey offer eight thousand dollars, he nearly stopped breathing.
At seventeen or eighteen, he wasn’t a clueless kid—he knew exactly what that kind of money meant.
The family was well-off enough to own the farm, but he had seen the bigger cities himself and knew he preferred them.

Once the deal was settled, all that remained was to sign the contract.
On paper, the sale price was recorded as three thousand dollars—at Davey’s request.
Many people knew he’d made plenty of money, but no one knew the full extent of it.

Deep down, Davey was still the same man who preferred to stay low-key—unlike those in the Federal government who loved to brag and show off.

He gave the Chadwick family a day to pack their things.
By tomorrow morning, they’d be boarding the train to leave town.
The farm would soon bear a new name—Land Farm, matching the surname on Davey’s legal papers.

...

Horseshoe Overlook.

Mac followed Trelawny back to camp.
The moment he returned, he collapsed on his bed and fell sound asleep—completely exhausted.

“Trelawny, what’s with Mac?” Dutch asked with a grin. “Don’t tell me he’s been out handling some grand business we don’t know about?”

Trelawny chuckled. “That Mac fellow? He’s been living in the saloon day and night. When I found him, he had two beautiful ladies in his arms. I’d wager half the women in Valentine have spent the night with him by now.”

“His once-strong body’s been completely drained by those lovely ladies—he’s got nothing left in him.”

“Davey told me to bring him back to camp so he could rest for a few days before we set out to rescue Sean MacGuire.”

At the mention of Davey, Dutch frowned. “And where is Davey? Why hasn’t he come back? Don’t tell me the women of Valentine have trapped him too—or is he just not interested in rescuing Sean?”

Dutch’s tone immediately made the camp fall silent.
Everyone could tell—he was genuinely angry.

Sean MacGuire was well-liked in the gang.
Sure, the lad had a sharp tongue, but most saw him as family.
And in their eyes, family meant looking out for one another—though, admittedly, many would make an exception for Micah Bell.

Trelawny hesitated for a moment before answering. “Davey’s situation has… changed. If he came along, it’d only complicate things for the rescue. He’s not the same man he used to be.”

Dutch’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly do you mean by that, Trelawny? What’s going on with Davey?”

Trelawny sighed. “Moonshine. The moonshine flooding Valentine and all the nearby farms, ranches, and factories—that’s Davey’s business.”

At that, Hosea, who’d been nearby, stepped forward. “Trelawny, are you saying that moonshine operation belongs to Davey?”

Unlike Dutch, who’d been lounging at camp, Hosea had been traveling all over trying to find buyers for the train bonds they’d stolen.
He was no stranger to the moonshine that had taken over New Hanover—he’d even bought several bottles himself.
The low price and unique sweetness of the drink had impressed him.

But he never imagined that behind such a massive operation… the boss would be Davey.

Chapter Text

Though Davey now held great influence and control in Valentine, the moonshine business was still publicly tied to Donal’s name.
Very few people knew the truth—that the entire operation actually belonged to Davey.

Even though the gang members at camp gathered intelligence and often dealt with the moonshine themselves, none realized it was Davey’s business.
The only ones who knew were Arthur, John, Mac, and now Trelawny.

Davey had been well aware that once he told Trelawny, Dutch would inevitably find out.
But at this point, Davey no longer needed to hide anything. He’d achieved enough success to stand on his own.

Under Dutch’s persistent questioning, Trelawny eventually revealed everything he knew.
The news stunned the camp—everyone stood frozen in disbelief.

Only Uncle, leaning against a wagon with a bottle in hand, seemed amused, his eyes growing brighter as he listened.

“So, Arthur, my boy—you knew about this all along, didn’t you?”
“You helped Davey keep it from me.”
“Where’s your loyalty, Arthur? Is this what loyalty to me looks like?”
“I had a plan—a perfect plan—and now you’ve ruined it!”

Dutch’s furious roar shattered the silence. The moment he pieced it together, his anger flared even hotter.
He realized Arthur must have known back when Davey joined them to rescue Micah from Strawberry, yet he’d chosen not to tell him.

At the edge of camp, Lenny’s expression grew uneasy.
He knew too. The moonshine business hadn’t started back then, but once it exploded across New Hanover, he’d guessed it had to be Davey’s doing.
Still, he’d kept that from Dutch—a decision that had quietly weighed on him ever since.

“Dutch, Davey hasn’t done anything wrong. He hasn’t betrayed the gang, has he?”
“He just wanted a more stable life. He told me he had a plan—and now, his plan worked.”

Arthur stepped forward, speaking calmly. To him, there was nothing wrong with Davey chasing a different life.
But those words—he had a plan, his plan worked—
made Dutch’s blood boil.

He felt as if Arthur was mocking him. Davey’s plan had succeeded, while his own still hadn’t.

“So, Arthur,” Dutch asked coldly, his eyes narrowing, “are you planning to leave me too—just like Davey?”

Arthur sensed Dutch’s growing instability and quickly replied, “Dutch, I’ve always believed in you. I still believe in your plan.”

Dutch’s anger eased slightly at that, and he turned his gaze to the rest of the gang.

“So,” he said, voice hard, “is there anyone here who wants to follow Davey?”

Micah Bell stepped forward first.
“Dutch, I believe in you. The money we took from Blackwater is more than enough to live on for the rest of our lives.
If Davey’s off doing business, that means he’s giving up his share—and that’s a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“No matter how well his little enterprise goes, he’ll never make that kind of money.”
“If we can just reclaim the Blackwater stash, we’ll have the freedom we’ve always dreamed of.”

Micah’s words immediately softened Dutch’s expression, and a flicker of satisfaction crossed his face.
At such a critical moment, Micah had just reinforced Dutch’s authority in front of everyone.

Sure enough, after Micah spoke, Bill, Javier, Charles, Lenny, and John all echoed one after another:
“Dutch, I believe in you.”

The only one absent was Mac, still fast asleep and snoring somewhere in camp.
But Dutch didn’t expect anything different—Mac was Davey’s twin brother, and he’d always side with him.

Feeling the gang’s support, Dutch suddenly thought life without Davey wasn’t so bad after all.
In fact, his own influence seemed even greater now.

“Good,” Dutch said, his tone steady again. “As Micah said, since Davey’s chosen to leave the gang, he forfeits his share of the Blackwater money—and the train bonds as well.”

“If he wants to play moonshiner in Valentine, let him. It’ll even help draw the Pinkertons’ attention away from us.”

“Sean MacGuire is my boy—my brother. I won’t stand by and let him be thrown into a federal prison and hanged on the gallows.”

“Trelawny, keep gathering intel in Blackwater. When they move Sean, we’ll strike and get him out. That poor lad’s probably been through hell in there.”

“I have a plan—once we rescue Sean and Hosea sells the bonds, we’ll find a way to recover the Blackwater money.”

“Then we’ll go to Tahiti. We’ll buy a big piece of land, plant some mangoes, and live free.”

...

(40 Chapters Ahead)

p@treon com / GhostParser

Chapter Text

Dutch’s speech had been a success—it reignited the gang’s morale and stirred their spirits.
He hadn’t intended to bring up the Blackwater money, but at this point, it was the only thing that could motivate everyone.

The lure of $150,000 was powerful. Still, Dutch knew the gang was fragile now—especially because of Davey.
Damn Davey.

As people would say in later times: You don’t want your brother to live poorly, but you can’t stand to see him driving a luxury car either.

Dutch felt a deep, bitter ache—worse than the time they’d been surrounded by Pinkertons after robbing the ferry in Blackwater.
The better Davey did, the worse Dutch felt. The contrast cut deep.

“Hosea, maybe we don’t have to push Davey away. Like Arthur said, he hasn’t betrayed the gang, has he?”
“Besides, Davey must know plenty of influential people in Valentine now. Maybe we could ask him to help us sell the bonds. That way, we wouldn’t have to accept such a low price.”
“Davey still cares about the gang—and about Sean. If he joined us, sure, it might draw the Pinkertons’ attention. But the fact that he sent Mac shows he still cares about the boy.”

After Dutch’s speech, Hosea approached him for a quiet talk.
Like Arthur, Hosea was genuinely happy to see how Davey had changed.
He admired him too—building such a thriving moonshine business was no small feat.

To Hosea, Davey sending his twin brother Mac to take part in their rescue was proof he still cared for the gang. He just wanted a better life.
Davey could easily do what Trelawny did—help the gang through information or other means.
And Hosea was certain Davey wouldn’t refuse.

“Hosea, maybe you’re right,” Dutch finally said. “Then I’ll leave the matter of selling the bonds to you.”

Dutch knew Hosea spoke sense, but the words left a bitter taste.
After saying that, he turned and walked away, not wanting to continue the conversation.

...

Elsewhere, Uncle had cornered Arthur.

“Arthur, you rascal! Don’t tell me you really paid two dollars for this. I bet you got it straight from Davey.”

Arthur gave him an exasperated look. “Uncle, I swear I paid two bucks for it. If I’d taken it from Davey, I’d have brought you a whole case!”

Uncle grinned. “Then that’s a promise—bring me a whole case of Davey’s moonshine next time!”

Arthur sighed. “Why don’t you go yourself, Uncle? Davey would let you drink as much as you want.”

Uncle glanced in Dutch’s direction, then lowered his voice. “You know how it is, Arthur. Dutch ain’t in a good mood right now. Going to see Davey would only make him angrier.”
“So, you’re the one who should fetch it for me.”

Arthur shook his head. “Fine, Uncle. When I head out, I’ll bring you a case of Davey’s moonshine.”

Uncle chuckled. “Then leave tomorrow, Arthur. It’ll still be a few days before we move on Sean MacGuire.”
“Ever since I had that moonshine, everything else in camp tastes like water. I can’t stop thinking about that flavor.”
“If it weren’t for Dutch, I’d ask you to ride to Valentine today.”

Arthur could only sigh. He knew that for a drunk like Uncle, Davey’s moonshine was irresistible. He’d have to keep his word.

...

Meanwhile, John was facing a different conversation.

“John, maybe Davey’s right,” Abigail whispered. “We should leave the gang.”

She’d already heard bits about Davey’s situation from John before, though back then, Davey’s business hadn’t yet taken off.
Now that she knew his moonshine operation was thriving, she wanted to seek him out instead of staying with the gang.

Sure, bootlegging was still illegal—but it was far safer than robbery. At least they wouldn’t be wanted, constantly running from the law.
Besides, Davey had connections with the Valentine Police Department. That meant more safety—and a better future for little Jack.

“Abigail, now’s not the time,” John said quietly. “Dutch is already furious about all this.”
“If we’re going to leave, we should wait until after we rescue Sean MacGuire.”

John’s voice wavered; part of him was moved by Dutch’s words earlier.
After all, there was $150,000 in Blackwater—and once they sold the bonds, there’d be even more. With that kind of money, they could live comfortably.

Davey’s offer tempted him, but Dutch had been like a father to him.
And the truth was, John still wasn’t ready to be a father himself.
He couldn’t think about little Jack the way Abigail did.

Abigail, however, had already made up her mind.
She knew now wasn’t the right time to leave—but in her heart, she’d already decided to go to Davey.
If John refused, she’d take Jack and go on her own.

She believed Davey wouldn’t abandon her or the boy.

Chapter Text

Mary-Beth Gaskill.

After hearing about Davey, she had thoughts. She knew Dutch had long harbored designs on him, repeatedly trying to get close to him and possess him. But the charm of that old man couldn’t win her over.

Besides, Susan had once been Dutch’s lover, and Molly O’Shea was his current one — Mary found the whole situation revolting.

A thought popped into Micah Bell’s head.

Davey’s rich now — why not rob him?

The idea died almost as soon as it came. The Callander brothers weren’t fools to be messed with. He still remembered Blackwater: if the Callanders hadn’t killed so many Blackwater officers and Pinkerton detectives, they might never have escaped.

And Dutch wouldn’t go for Micah’s plan. The others wouldn’t join him against Davey, either.

Back at camp, Bill was cursing Davey, calling him disloyal and a traitor to the gang. Of course, that was because Mac was asleep — if Mac weren’t, it would’ve turned into a fight.

Charles didn’t dwell on it. He’d always hated the Callander brothers, hated how they slaughtered animals wantonly rather than out of necessity.

Only Lenny felt grateful to David and guilty toward Dutch.

Susan Grimshaw felt a pang of regret: without the Callander brothers, the gang had lost a lot of its fighting strength. Still, she was glad for Davey.

Tilly Jackson envied Davey — he was living free. Pearson couldn’t care less; he was just a cook — oh, Van der Linde’s tiger. Sadie wasn’t especially close to Davey and had little interaction with him in the gang.

In any case, Davey’s situation hit a lot of people in the gang hard; some of them began to think differently.

...

Evening.

Trelawny sat beside Strauss. Compared with the others, these two were the intellectual types — usually in suits, hair slicked back.

“No wonder Davey suddenly lost interest in my loan business — he’s found something better.”

“He’s changed so much since Blackwater; it’s genuinely shocking.”

“Is he a big shot in Valentine now, Trelawny?” Strauss asked, curious. Even though Mac had socked him the last time, Strauss didn’t hold a grudge — the Downes affair had indeed been his fault.

Trelawny brightened at the mention of Davey.

“You know, Strauss, if Davey walks down Valentine’s streets, the patrolling officers salute him.”

“In the Valentine Saloon, it seems many are his men; they treat him with real respect.”

“Davey’s moonshine business pulls in countess of dollars every day — far quicker than robbery.”

“And I’ve heard he’s secured legal standing now. He doesn’t have to worry about being wanted anymore.”

Trelawny didn’t tell Dutch everything. After all, he’d taken $200 from Davey and was practically working for him, so it made sense he’d hold some details back.

Strauss listened, thinking. He pressed Trelawny for more about Davey, but Trelawny didn’t know everything. Still, what he did know was enough to spark other ideas in Strauss.

Strauss had always gotten along fairly well with the Callander brothers, except for the Downes incident. As Arthur had told Davey before, Davey’s success offered gang members a way out — if Dutch’s plan failed, they’d have other options.

The next day, Mac woke from a deep sleep. God only knew how long it had been since he’d slept that well. Nights in Valentine had been full of drink and women; this rest had refreshed him a great deal.

When he heard Arthur was headed to Valentine, Mac wanted to go with him. But he understood Davey wasn’t joking — if he went to Valentine, he’d end up hung from a tree. The thought was unbearable.

...

Valentine.