If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Caleb pointed a finger directly at Bill's chest. "We locked him down there because if we didn't, we would all be swinging from a rope in Saint Denis right now, or bleeding out in the mud. We survived despite Dutch, not because of him. You mourn the man he was in the past before the madness took him, Bill. But that man has been dead for a long time. The thing in the basement was going to drag us all to hell. Remember that."
Bill was dead silent after listening to that. The venom and absolute truth in Caleb's words pierced through the veil of his blind devotion. He looked around the room, seeing the grim nods of agreement from Charles, Javier, and John. He realized, finally, that he was alone in his fanatical loyalty.
Slowly, the fight drained out of him. Bill moved his body, shrugging off the hands of those that were holding him. John, Charles, and Javier let him go, stepping back cautiously.
Bill didn't look at Caleb again. He kept his eyes glued to the floorboards. Before anyone could say another word, he just left the homestead, pushing through the front door to get down fresh air outside, needing to be alone with the shattered fragments of his idol.
As the door clicked shut, everyone in the room heaved a collective sigh of relief, seeing that Bill had calmed down and the immediate threat of internal violence had passed.
At this time, the heavy wooden door in the kitchen creaked open, and Arthur and Hosea walked upstairs. They both looked exhausted, as if they had aged ten years in the span of ten minutes. Arthur's hat was pulled low over his eyes, and Hosea was leaning heavily on the doorframe, his face a map of profound grief.
Hosea cleared his throat, commanding the room's attention. He didn't speak of the madness, or the poison, or the betrayal. He stepped back into the role of the gang's patriarch.
"Alright," Hosea began, his voice raspy but steady. He looked around at the faces of his family. "It's done. Now, we do right by him."
Hosea began to instruct some of the men to prepare a grave for Dutch. "Charles, John, Lenny... take some shovels. Go out behind the homestead. Find a quiet spot under the old oak tree by the ridge. Dig it deep. Make it respectable."
The three men nodded silently, grabbing their hats and heading out the back door to fulfill the grim task.
Hosea then turned to the remaining members of the camp. He instructed some of the other boys, and specifically called upon Miss Grimshaw, to bring the body upstairs. "Susan, Javier, Sean. Go down there. Bring him up. Wash him. Clean him up and make Dutch look a bit presentable. Get the mud off him. Find the finest suit he has left in his chest."
Miss Grimshaw, her face stern but her eyes red rimmed, nodded firmly. "I'll see to it, Mr. Matthews. He'll look like the gentleman he was." She gathered some fresh linens, a basin of water, and motioned for Javier and Sean to follow her down into the dark.
Hosea then turned to the rest of the gathered gang. "The rest of you... gather yourselves. Put on your best outfits if you have it. We say goodbye to him before the sun sets." He then told everyone to prepare for Dutch's burial.
The homestead transformed into a hive of somber, quiet activity. The usual banter was entirely absent. Caleb stood by Mary-Beth, offering a comforting presence as she wiped her eyes and went to change into a dark dress.
Out back, beneath the sprawling, leafy canopy of an ancient oak tree that overlooked the sweeping valleys of the Heartlands, Charles, John, and Lenny worked in shifts. The rhythmic thwack of shovels biting into the rich, dark earth was the only sound.
They dug deep, creating a final resting place that offered a beautiful, unbroken view of the western horizon, the freedom Dutch had always preached about, but never truly understood.
Inside the house, a different kind of solemn work was underway. Dutch's body was brought up from the basement by Javier and Sean, their faces pale under the strain of carrying the dead weight of their former leader. They laid him out on a large table in the spare room.
Miss Grimshaw took over. With meticulous, maternal care that she hadn't shown him in months, she got the body washed and cleaned to look presentable.
She scrubbed the dirt and grime from his face, combed his greying hair back with pomade until it looked neat and orderly, and trimmed his wild beard. They dressed him in his finest remaining clothes, a crisp white shirt, a crimson vest, his polished black boots, and his dark duster.
When she was finished, he no longer looked like the feral, broken creature Caleb had seen in the basement. He looked, superficially, like the charismatic outlaw king who had saved them all so many years ago.
As the late afternoon sun began to dip toward the horizon, casting the Heartlands in a soft, melancholic gold, the body was brought to the back to be buried.
Javier, Sean, Arthur, and Charles acted as pallbearers, carrying the makeshift wooden stretcher out of the back door and across the grass toward the oak tree.
Everyone was present, standing in a loose semi circle around the freshly dug earth. Mary-Beth stood beside Caleb, holding his hand tightly. Abigail held little Jack close to her skirts. Uncle stood with his hat clutched to his chest, looking surprisingly sober.
Even Molly had come out, standing on the very edge of the group, her face completely veiled in shadow. Bill stood opposite Caleb, his eyes red and swollen, staring blankly down at the dirt. Caleb stood tall, his expression suitably solemn, internally monitoring the crowd to ensure the narrative held perfectly.
After Dutch's body was gently lowered and put inside the grave, a profound silence settled over the group. The wind rustled the leaves above them, a mournful whisper across the plains.
Hosea stepped forward, standing at the head of the grave. He looked down at the wooden planks for a long time before he spoke. When he did, he chose to give some words in remembrance of the Dutch everyone knew and loved, decidedly completely ignoring the monster he had turned into at the end.
"We are here to say goodbye to Dutch van der Linde," Hosea began, his voice wavering slightly before gaining strength. "A lot of you... you only saw the end of it. The hard times. The confusion. But I want you to remember the man who found you when you had nothing. The man who took the hungry, the forgotten, and the broken, and told them they were family."
Hosea looked up, meeting the eyes of the gang members. "Dutch was a dreamer. He dreamed of a place where we could be free. He loved this family, in his own way, more than anything in the world. He had a fire in him... a fire that kept us warm when the world was freezing us out. That fire burned out. But we don't forget the warmth it gave us. Rest easy, my old friend. You're finally free."
Hosea stepped back, swiping a tear from his cheek.
Arthur stepped up next to the edge of the grave. He took off his hat, clutching it in his large, calloused hands. He looked down, his chest heaving with a suppressed, immense sorrow. He knew the truth of Dutch's death, and the guilt and grief waged a terrible war in his eyes.
"You taught me how to read, Dutch," Arthur said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "You taught me how to shoot. You taught me how to survive in a world that didn't want us. You were... you were like a father to me." Arthur paused, his jaw tightening. "Things went wrong. Things went real wrong. But I ain't gonna forget the man who saved my life when I was just a dumb, angry kid. I'm sorry I couldn't save yours. Goodbye, Dutch."
Arthur stepped back, putting his hat back on, pulling the brim low over his eyes.
Miss Grimshaw stepped forward next, her hands clasped tightly in front of her dark dress. "You gave us a home when the towns cast us out," she said fiercely, her voice tight with emotion. "You gave us pride. You were a gentleman, Dutch van der Linde. And I will ensure your camp stays strong. May the Lord have mercy on you."
A couple of others in the gang offered short, whispered words. Lenny thanked him for taking him in. Mary-Beth whispered a quiet prayer for his soul. Javier muttered something softly in Spanish, crossing himself.
When the last word was spoken, silence fell again. Hosea nodded to Charles and John.
They picked up the shovels. The first sound of dirt hitting the wooden boards below was agonizingly loud. Thwack. Caleb watched as the earth slowly covered the body. He felt Mary-Beth squeeze his hand, and he squeezed back reassuringly. As the grave was filled, Caleb looked past the oak tree, out toward the vast, open expanse of the Heartlands.
The past was officially buried. The Dutch van der Linde gang was dead. In its place, under the quiet guidance of Caleb Thorne, a new family would rise from the ashes, free, wealthy, and untouchable.
When the last shovelful of dirt was patted down, creating a neat, dark mound against the green grass, John and Charles stepped back, leaning heavily on their spades.
Hosea gestured toward the trembling figure of Reverend Swanson. The priest stepped forward, clutching his worn, leather bound Bible. He looked down at the fresh grave, his eyes red rimmed and bloodshot, carrying the unbearable weight of a secret executioner.
The gang listened to Reverend Swanson giving some sermon after the grave was filled.
"We commit his body to the ground," Swanson began, his voice surprisingly steady, finding a hollow strength in the familiar rituals of his faith. "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
He raised a trembling hand over the mound. "Lord, we ask that you look upon Dutch van der Linde with mercy. We ask you to forgive him his trespasses, as he forgave those who trespassed against him. We pray, giving blessing to Dutch to reach a much better place. A place where the demons that plagued his mind in the end can no longer reach him. A place of peace, and of true freedom."
Swanson paused, swallowing hard, before turning his gaze to the silent, grieving faces of the gang members gathered around him.
"And Lord," Swanson continued, his voice rising in volume, "we ask for a blessing for everyone here. To have the strength to keep going on. The shepherd has fallen, but the flock remains. Give us the courage to walk out of the valley of the shadow of death, to support one another, and to find the light that Dutch always told us was waiting just over the next horizon. Amen."
"Amen," the gang murmured in unison, the collective word carrying on the evening breeze.
With the sermon concluded, the heavy, suffocating formality of the burial began to dissipate, replaced by the crushing reality of their new existence. They lingered by the grave for a few moments longer, before slowly turning back toward the lights of the main house.
After that was done, Pearson prepared some food for everyone to eat together. He had raided his best stores, roasting a whole side of beef and baking fresh loaves of bread.
Since such tragedy means they need to be together to face it through, Pearson knew that a hot meal was the only real comfort they had left to offer each other. Since it is what this family have always did, facing tragedy together to keep each other strong, and so that no one lefts behind, they gathered around the large table in the kitchen and the adjoining parlor.
The mood was somber, the conversation hushed and reflective. People shared quiet stories of the early days, of the jobs that went right, and of the charismatic leader who had made them feel invincible before the world began to close in on them.
As everyone ate, Caleb sat closely beside Mary-Beth. He leaned in, his shoulder brushing against hers, and spoke in a low voice meant only for her.
Caleb looked to Mary-Beth, "Tomorrow, we will leave for Strawberry." He took a small piece of bread from her plate. "Which should have been today, I know. But since Dutch passed away, it have hold our plan to go to Strawberry. I'm sorry for the delay, but we had to see this through."
Mary-Beth nodded her head, her eyes still a bit glassy from the funeral, but filled with absolute understanding. She placed her hand over his. "I understand, Caleb. And there's no way we leave right away after Dutch passed away. It wouldn't have been right. The family needed us here."
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Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 2)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 2)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 4)
- Bow (Lvl 3)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 4)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 3)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl 3)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 50x50x50)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 2)
- Leadership (Lvl 2)
Money: 3,322 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 250,992 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 70 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Braithwaites Land Deed, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, 1 Senator Pendleton Sealed Envelope, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, & 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern
Bank: -