Chapter 617 - 617: 589. The Two Big Eliminated, Doesn't Mean It's Cleared Yet

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"Hold your fire!" Caleb roared, his voice cutting through the panic like a blade. "Form a defensive ring around the wagons! Do not break formation!" Caleb knew that conventional tactics were useless against an enemy that used the environment as a weapon. He needed precision. He needed to be the apex predator in a swamp full of monsters.

He smoothly slung the heavy Vanguard bolt action rifle off his back. He didn't bother with the iron sights. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, centering his breathing, and then snapped them open, fully engaging his Dead Eye.

The swirling fog seemed to thin. The chaotic, terrifying blur of the ash covered killers moving through the mud instantly came into sharp, agonizingly slow focus. Caleb saw the thermal heat, the slight shifts in the brush, the terrifyingly quiet movements of the ambushers.

He saw a Night Folk archer drawing a bow string back in the branches of a tree fifty yards away.

Crack.

The Vanguard rifle roared, a massive gout of flame illuminating the fog. The high velocity round tore through the mist, instantly shattering the archer's skull and sending his lifeless body tumbling out of the canopy to splash heavily into the water below.

Caleb worked the bolt with blinding speed, ejecting the smoking brass casing before the first body even hit the water.

He pivoted in the saddle. A Night Folk warrior was rushing John Marston from behind with a raised machete.

Crack.

The heavy bullet took the man in the spine, dropping him dead in the mud inches from John's horse.

"They're in the water! They're in the water!" Sean screamed, firing his rifle frantically at the ripples near the wagons.

Caleb spurred his Arabian forward, moving directly into the center of the chaotic melee. He became the anchor for the terrified capos. Every time a capo was about to be overwhelmed, every time a silent killer raised a blade from the shadows, Caleb's Vanguard rifle barked, delivering absolute, infallible salvation. He shot men out of the trees, he shot them as they rose from the water, and he shot them as they sprinted through the fog.

His precision was supernatural. The men began to rally around him, their panic subsiding as they realized that the monster leading them was far more terrifying than the monsters in the swamp.

Arthur, inspired by Caleb's deadly calm, kicked his horse forward, swinging his shotgun like a club to shatter the jaw of an attacking warrior before blowing the chest out of another. Bill and Javier formed a tight wedge near the motorcars, utilizing the headlights to blind the attackers before cutting them down in a hail of crossfire.

The Night Folk were accustomed to terrorizing lost travelers and terrified locals. They were not accustomed to fighting a disciplined army anchored by a man who never missed.

As Caleb dropped a seventh man with a flawless shot to the chest, the remaining Night Folk realized they were being slaughtered. The clicking noises ceased. The remaining survivors broke off the attack, melting back into the fog and diving into the deep water of the bayou, fleeing the massacre.

"Let them run!" Caleb shouted, lowering his smoking rifle, halting the capos who were preparing to chase them into the deep swamp. "Hold the line! Secure the wounded!"

The heavy, oppressive silence returned to the swamp, broken only by the ragged breathing of the men and the quiet groans of the injured.

Caleb rode forward, his eyes scanning the carnage illuminated by the motorcar headlights. Dozens of ash covered bodies floated in the murky water or lay sprawled across the muddy banks. They had paid a terrifying price for the ambush, but the Thorne army had taken a heavy hit as well.

Vincenzo rode up to Caleb, his immaculate suit soaked in swamp water and blood. He was clutching a shallow cut on his left arm, his face pale but resolute.

"We lost five more, Boss," Vincenzo reported, his voice tight. "Several more are injured. But we held the ground."

Caleb looked at the dead capos, their bodies being carefully lifted from the mud by their brothers. Thirteen men dead in a single night. It was the highest casualty rate the family had ever suffered in a single engagement. But as he looked ahead, his eyes caught a massive, familiar shape partially hidden beneath a camouflage tarp near the edge of a deep slough.

"Arthur," Caleb pointed. "Check the slough."

Arthur rode forward, dismounting carefully and wading into the shallow water to pull the heavy canvas tarp back.

Sitting in the mud were two large, heavy transport wagons, their wheels deeply mired in the swamp. Stacked neatly in the back were massive, heavy wooden spools wrapped in thousands of feet of gleaming, high grade copper wire.

"It's the copper, Caleb," Arthur confirmed, turning back to the column. "It's all here. They hadn't moved it."

Caleb let out a slow, heavy breath. The objective was secured. The radio tower would be built, the bridge to Europe would be forged, and the hospital would be supplied.

"Hitch the draft horses to those wagons and pull them out of the mud," Caleb ordered, his voice echoing through the misty trees. "Load our dead. We are going to continue our roll."

The dark, impenetrable depths of Bayou Nwa seemed to hold their breath in the aftermath of the slaughter. The heavy, oppressive silence of the swamp was broken only by the ragged, adrenaline laced breathing of the surviving capos and the terrifyingly wet sounds of bodies being dragged through the mud.

Caleb remained atop his black Arabian, a towering, silent sentinel illuminated by the intersecting beams of the Model T headlights. His eyes, cold and calculating, swept over the carnage.

"Get the medics to the wounded! Tourniquets high and tight!" Vincenzo's voice barked through the mist, the underboss moving with frantic, organized precision despite the shallow cut bleeding through his ruined suit sleeve.

Arthur waded out of the shallow slough, his heavy boots coated in thick gray muck, his customized shotgun resting over his shoulder. He walked over to the nearest transport wagon, where three capos were gently laying the ash covered bodies of their fallen brothers into the wooden bed. Arthur pulled his hat off, holding it against his chest in a rare moment of solemn respect as a young Irish kid from Saint Denis was covered with a heavy canvas tarp.

"Thirteen dead, Caleb," Arthur said, his gruff voice carrying a heavy, gravelly weight as he walked up to Caleb's horse. "And another twelve chewed up pretty bad. Machete wounds, mostly. Poisoned arrows for a couple of them. We've got the copper, but we paid a heavy toll in blood tonight. The boys are exhausted."

Caleb looked down at his oldest friend. He saw the fatigue etched into the lines of Arthur's face, the mud splattered across his cheek, and the sheer physical toll of fighting invisible monsters in the dark.

"The toll is heavy, Arthur," Caleb acknowledged, his voice quiet but ringing with absolute, uncompromising resolve. "But if we stop now, those thirteen men died for a single shipment of copper wire. I will not have their lives traded for metal. I want their lives traded for the permanent security of this state."

John rode up beside Arthur, wiping a smear of Night Folk ash and blood from the barrel of his repeater. "You ain't thinking of pushing on, are you, Caleb? The Raiders are ashes. The swamp is quiet."

"The swamp is quiet, John, but the western plains are not. The riverbanks are not," Caleb corrected, his tactical mind unspooling the map of Lemoyne in his head. "We came out here to burn the rot out of the state. The Raiders and the Night Folk were the largest tumors, but the disease has spread. There are splinters of the Del Lobo gang operating near the Scarlett Meadows border. There are highwaymen extorting the riverboats on the Lannahechee. If we turn back to the city now, those rats will crawl out of their holes tomorrow, thinking they survived the storm."

Caleb leaned forward in the saddle, his eyes locking onto his lieutenants.

"There will be no survivors. We do not stop until the sun comes up."

Arthur stared at Caleb for a long, silent moment. He saw the cold, mechanical perfection of a man who possessed high level stamina stats, a man who did not feel the bone deep weariness that dragged at the mortal men around him. But Arthur also saw the necessity of it. If they were going to be kings, they had to be ruthless.

"Alright," Arthur grunted, putting his hat back on and racking the pump of his shotgun. "But we can't drag these wounded across the state. They'll bleed out in the wagons."

"We divide the column," Caleb ordered instantly. "Silvio!"

The second underboss jogged over, his suit equally ruined by the swamp water. "Boss."

"Take two of the motorcars and twenty of the men. Escort the wounded and the dead back to Saint Denis immediately. Take the copper wagons with you," Caleb commanded. "Get them to the doctors. Have Antonio arrange the families for the pensions. You do not stop for anything on the road."

"Done," Silvio nodded sharply, already turning to organize the medical evacuation.

Caleb turned his Arabian, facing the surviving army. There were still over two hundred and fifty heavily armed men ready to ride. They were bloodied, they were coated in mud, but the sheer, fanatical fire in their eyes had not dimmed. They had watched Caleb Thorne move like a god of death through the fog, and they were ready to follow him into hell.

"Mount up!" Caleb's voice roared through the bayou, shattering the quiet. "The night is not over! We ride west!"

The evacuation column split off, heading east toward the glowing lights of the city, while Caleb led the main vanguard out of the suffocating, humid embrace of the swamps.

They rode hard for an hour, the terrain slowly shifting from the wet, sinking mud of the bayous to the dry, red dust of the western Lemoyne borders. The air grew crisper, the dense canopy of cypress trees giving way to wide, open plains and scattered, rocky ravines that offered perfect concealment for outlaws.

Riding alongside Caleb were Arthur, John, Javier, and Bill.

"The Del Lobos," Javier muttered, spitting into the red dust. "Mexican cutthroats. They usually stick to New Austin, but a splinter faction moved east a few months ago when the law clamped down in Armadillo. They're arrogant, Caleb. They like to drink, they like to boast, and they like heavy firepower. They don't hide in the mud like those swamp freaks."

"Where is their camp?" Caleb asked, his eyes scanning the horizon.

"Old mining claim near the edge of the Scarlett Meadows ravine," Javier replied, pointing toward a jagged line of rocks in the distance. "They use the high ground to spot the stagecoaches coming out of Strawberry and Valentine. If they are there, they will have sentries posted."

"Then we don't give the sentries time to scream," Caleb stated.

As the massive column approached the rocky ravine, Caleb signaled for the Model Ts to cut their engines and their headlights. The heavy motorcars rolled to a silent halt in the tall grass. The cavalry dismounted, leaving the horses secured behind a low ridge. The assault would be conducted on foot.

Caleb drew his twin M1911 pistols, the heavy, matte black steel feeling like a natural extension of his hands.

He crept forward, leading Javier, Arthur, and a wedge of fifty capos through the dry brush. The Del Lobo camp was situated in a natural bowl surrounded by high rock walls. Over forty hardened outlaws were gathered around massive, roaring bonfires. They were entirely relaxed, passing bottles of tequila, laughing loudly, and polishing a terrifying array of stolen rifles and customized revolvers.

True to Javier's warning, they had sentries posted on the two rock pillars overlooking the entrance to the bowl.

Caleb didn't break stride. He didn't even slow down.

As he walked out of the brush and into the open, the two sentries spotted the movement in the moonlight. One of them opened his mouth to shout a warning, raising his repeater.

Caleb's Dead Eye engaged.

The world plunged into that familiar, sepia toned crawl. The flames of the bonfires below seemed to freeze in mid flicker. Caleb raised his right M1911. The front sight dropped perfectly onto the first sentry's forehead. He shifted his left wrist, the second pistol perfectly tracking the second sentry eighty yards away.

Crack. Crack.

The suppressed, high velocity rounds of the 1911s were distinct, flat snaps in the night air. The first sentry folded backward, dead before his brain could register the sound. A fraction of a second later, the second sentry tumbled off the high rock, his body hitting the dirt below with a heavy thud.

The sound of the falling body silenced the laughter around the bonfires.

The Del Lobos looked up.

Standing at the edge of the ravine, silhouetted by the moonlight, was an army of men in tailored suits, led by a single figure holding two smoking pistols.

"Kill them!" a Del Lobo lieutenant screamed in Spanish, drawing his revolvers.

"Wipe them out!" Caleb roared, sprinting down the steep incline of the ravine directly into the center of the camp.

The ensuing firefight was a masterclass in modern, industrialized violence overwhelming frontier brutality. The Del Lobos were hardened killers, fast with their single action revolvers and lever action repeaters, but they were facing a syndicate armed with the cutting edge of Thorne-Marlin technology.

Caleb moved like a wraith through the chaotic, swirling dust of the camp. His Max Level Handgun skill was terrifying to witness. He didn't fire wildly, every single trigger pull was a calculated, mathematical certainty.

Three Del Lobos charged him from behind a burning wagon, fanning the hammers of their revolvers, unleashing a wall of lead.

Caleb slid on his knees through the dirt, slipping entirely beneath their line of fire. His Dead Eye flared. Time slowed. He brought both M1911s up, crossing his arms.

Bang bang bang.

Three shots. Three men dropped instantly, their chests blown open by the heavy .45 ACP rounds.

Caleb rolled to his feet, ejecting a half empty magazine from his right hand, slamming a fresh one home with the heel of his palm in less than a second, and immediately firing three more rounds into a sniper trying to draw a bead on him from a wooden water tower. The sniper crashed through the wooden railings, plunging into the dust.

Javier was a demon unleashed, fighting with the furious, lethal grace of a man purging his own ghosts. He moved back to back with Arthur, his twin revolvers barking continuously, dropping every Del Lobo that tried to flank them.

"They've got dynamite!" John screamed over the gunfire, pointing toward a heavy wooden crate in the center of the camp where two outlaws were frantically trying to light the fuses of several explosive bundles.

If they managed to throw those bundles into the packed ranks of the advancing capos, the casualties would be catastrophic.

Caleb didn't hesitate. He holstered his right pistol, reached over his shoulder, and drew the Vanguard rifle in a single, fluid motion. He didn't have time to aim down the iron sights. He fired from the hip, engaging his Dead Eye to guide the trajectory.

The high velocity rifle round crossed the camp in a millisecond, striking the exact center of the dynamite bundle clutched in the outlaw's hands.

The explosion was biblical.

A massive, concussive shockwave of fire and pulverized rock ripped through the center of the camp. The two outlaws were instantly vaporized, and the resulting blast wave threw a dozen more Del Lobos off their feet, shattering the defensive line they had tried to form.

"Push!" Vincenzo roared, leading a wedge of capos through the smoke of the explosion, their repeating shotguns cycling with devastating rhythm, clearing the remaining resistance.

The Del Lobo splinter faction was annihilated in less than ten minutes.

The dust slowly settled over the ravine. Forty two bodies lay scattered around the burning campfires. The air was thick with the acrid stench of sulfur, burning wood, and blood.

Caleb walked slowly through the camp, his boots kicking aside discarded revolvers. He ejected the magazine from his M1911, checking the brass, his face a mask of absolute, emotionless focus.

"Casualties?" Caleb asked quietly as Vincenzo jogged up to him.

"Three dead, Boss," Vincenzo reported, wiping a streak of soot from his forehead. "Six wounded. Shrapnel from the dynamite blast caught a few of the boys on the left flank."

Caleb closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Three more men dead. Sixteen total for the night. The weight of it was a heavy, physical pressure in his chest, but he locked it away behind a vault of iron resolve. He was the commander. He could not mourn until the war was won.

"Load them up," Caleb commanded. "Have the medics patch the wounded. We aren't finished."

Arthur walked up, kicking a burning piece of firewood back into the pit. "Where next, Caleb? We're burning moonlight, and the boys are running on pure adrenaline."

"The Lannahechee," Caleb stated, turning to face the east. "There is a massive ring of smugglers and highwaymen operating out of the hidden coves near the Kamassa River delta. They are the ones extorting the steamboats and hitting the coastal supply routes. If we don't break them tonight, they will use this vacuum to take over the territory."

The army remobilized. The exhaustion was setting in, a deep, bone weary ache that dragged at the capos' limbs, but the fanatical momentum carried them forward. They rode hard for another two hours, the landscape shifting once again as they approached the muddy, treacherous banks of the Lannahechee River. The smell of fresh water and decaying fish replaced the dry dust of the plains.

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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 MAX)

- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)

- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)

- Poker (Lvl MAX)

- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)

- Eagle Eye (Lvl MAX)

- Dead Eye (Lvl MAX)

- Bow (Lvl MAX)

- Pain Nullifier (Lvl MAX)

- Physical Regeneration (Lvl MAX)

- Crafting (Lvl MAX)

- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)

- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)

- Cooking (Lvl MAX)

- Teaching (Lvl MAX)

- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)

- Inventory System (Permanent - 100x100x100)

- Acting (Lvl MAX)

- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)

- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)

- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)

- Business (Lvl MAX)

- Leadership (Lvl MAX)

Money: 2,772 dollars and 60 cents

Inventory: 283,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 74 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 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern, & 3 Diamonds

Bank: -