Wildflowers - A RDR story

0.2 - Cheat

-Blackwater, West Elizabeth, October 1898-

It's been a couple of weeks since my meeting with Mrs. LeClerk and Horley. Since then, I've met some new people and completed various jobs for them, earning a decent amount of money in return. Right now, I'm on my way to meet another newcomer—a stranger—up in Tall Trees.

I step out of the bustling general store after stocking up on ammunition, always ensuring I have enough before heading out on any jobs. The small town is alive with activity today; merchants are calling out to customers, children are playing, and the smell of food wafts through the air. Navigating this lively scene proves a bit challenging as I make my way back to my horse. I've opted to keep that scrawny nag Horley gave me; surprisingly, I've grown quite fond of the animal despite its appearance. After packing the ammo into my saddlebag, I climb onto my horse and set off toward Tall Trees, where I hope to make a good impression.

The air is crisper this time of year—not cold, but refreshing. After the sweltering humidity of West Elizabeth's summers, the autumn breeze feels just right against my skin. As I ride into the woods, I light a cigarette, sensing my energy running low. I nudge my horse's sides to urge him into a lope, taking note of the sun beginning to dip behind the treetops—it's late afternoon, and I need to stay alert.

Upon arriving at the small cabin nestled deep in the woods, I dismount and grab my bolt action rifle, prepared for whatever may come next. Cautiously, I approach the cabin, scanning the surroundings for any signs that I might be followed. I knock softly on the door, awaiting an answer that never comes. Curiosity piqued, I decide to step inside, finding the place deserted. I begin to look around for anything of value I might be able to take, the eerie silence weighing on me.

Suddenly, a distant whistling breaks the stillness, growing steadily closer. Through the window, I glimpse a man passing by too quickly to discern his features. He circles around the cabin, heading toward the very door I just entered. I freeze, holding my breath, bracing myself for the worst.

When the man opens the door with his back, hands weighed down by a crate filled with liquor, a moment of chaos ensues. The second he sees me, his face drains of color. "What the fuck, buddy?" he exclaims, dropping the crate. Bottles shatter on the floor, and he quickly unholsters his gun, leveling it at me. I instinctively draw my Navy revolver, both of us locked in an intense stare, fully aware of the precarious situation.

"What the fuck do you want, eh?" he shouts, pulling back the hammer of his gun, ready to fire. "Settle down," I reply, echoing his action. "What is it? You want to get yourself killed or something, huh?" he continues, his voice a mix of fear and bravado. I do my best to take him seriously; he certainly doesn't seem afraid to shoot. Yet, his thick Irish accent makes it hard not to chuckle. "No," I answer, suppressing a smile in response to the absurdity of it all. "I don't like getting surprised. Shit," he sighs, his tension somewhat easing. I keep my gaze fixed on him, determined to mask my impatience—it could cost me my life. "I understand," I reply.

"You looking for work, is that it?" I nod and decide to holster my gun, hoping this will defuse the tension effectively. The man chuckles, mirroring my actions, a slight smile creeping onto his face. "I know the type—strong, silent, real frightening. Still waters run deep. That type of shite, is it?" he muses, bending down to retrieve the crate he dropped and sweeping away the broken bottles, marking the start of an unanticipated partnership. "You could say that..." I chuckle under my breath.

"Names' Sean MacGuire," he introduces himself, his thick Irish accent punctuating his words. His stature relaxed yet confident. "I've temporarily lost me friends. It's a fucking disaster." He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, clearly agitated. "I had them, then went away for a couple of days to take care of a bastard I owed a killing to—good man, eh? Then I lost the folk I ride with. Big bunch, not like you lot. Nah, we lived like sultans in our fucking tents," he explains, his gaze looking at the distance, as if picturing his past. I hand him a couple of discarded bottles I took from the ground, remnants of his waste. "What makes you think I don't live like a 'fucking sultan'? Do not assume things about me, Mr. MacGuire," I tease, raising an eyebrow.