Chapter 75: The Appearance of the Moonshine Agents
Hosea had never expected Davey to stand up for him.
He was a thief, a robber, a con artist—a wanted man. So when people looked down on him, he had always accepted it as only natural.
But Davey’s words just now had moved him deeply, bringing a faint sting to his eyes.
To him, the Callander brothers were like sons. And what Davey had done felt like a son stepping forward to defend his father’s dignity.
“Thank you, Davey,” Hosea said quietly as they left Wells Restaurant.
“Alright, Hosea,” Davey replied with a smile, patting him on the back. “Let’s not dwell on such heavy talk. Our business is settled now—how about we find Arthur and have a drink?”
Hosea chuckled. “Of course, Davey. But it’s on you this time—you just made yourself a tidy sum.”
They went to Smithfield Saloon but didn’t find Arthur there.
Still, finding someone in Valentine was no trouble for Davey. It didn’t take long for him to hear that Arthur was at the Old Saloon.
At that moment, Arthur was chatting with a man named Levin—a writer.
Levin was telling him about the legendary sharpshooters. He wanted to write a biography that would turn the drunken “Kid” Jim Calloway—passed out beside him—into a legend.
Jim “Boy” Calloway was said to be the fastest left-handed gun in the world, famed for killing fourteen men in the Battle of Willow Rock.
Levin handed Arthur four photographs of former sharpshooters and asked him to find them, ask about their opinions of Calloway—and if any of them spoke ill of him, Arthur was to kill them.
Levin promised Arthur half the profits from the biography as payment for his help.
When Arthur stepped out of the Old Saloon, he ran right into Davey and Hosea.
“Looks like things went well for you two,” Arthur said, noticing their good spirits.
“Of course,” Hosea replied. “We haven’t got the money yet, but they agreed to connect us with a banker. For a man like that, our bonds won’t be any trouble.”
He grinned. “Now, we should celebrate with a drink.”
Arthur slipped the photos and camera into his bag. “Sounds like a fine idea.”
Seeing the photos and camera, Davey immediately guessed what Arthur had gotten himself into—it had to be about the legendary sharpshooters.
And through jobs like these, Arthur was slowly becoming the true number-one gunman of the West.
Unlike the game world Davey remembered, finding these sharpshooters in reality would take Arthur months.
Back in his previous life, when he played the game, Davey had never paid much attention to the passage of time.
In truth, four years had passed between their time at Colter and the move to Beaver Hollow—spanning from 1899 to 1903.
From Arthur’s death at sunset to John taking over in 1907, another four years had gone by.
But this time, Arthur hadn’t fallen ill with tuberculosis. Naturally, he would live much longer.
And without that disease, Davey couldn’t imagine who in this world could possibly kill the monster known as the West’s greatest sharpshooter.
...
The three of them drank heavily that night at Davey’s farmhouse and slept until noon the next day.
“Davey, Uncle wants you to send over some moonshine,” Arthur said sheepishly as he and Hosea prepared to return to camp, recalling the old man’s request.
Davey waved it off with a grin. “Take as much as you can carry. Tell Uncle he’ll have more than enough.”
For Davey, a bottle of moonshine cost barely twenty cents—it hardly mattered.
Arthur and Hosea didn’t hesitate; they joked that it would be a crime not to take advantage. They loaded four crates of moonshine onto their horses and even stuffed their pockets full.
“You two look more like bootleggers than I do now,” Davey laughed heartily, watching them haul away their spoils.
After seeing Arthur and Hosea off, Davey had the maid draw him a hot bath. He soaked for a while, washing away the smell of liquor.
He wasn’t usually one to drink so much, but in this world, Davey often felt the loneliness pressing in.
Hosea and Arthur—he truly saw them as his closest friends.
Letting loose now and then with friends like that felt right.
But just as his good mood settled, Donal came rushing in with troubling news.
“Mr. Callander,” Donal said, “our moonshine business in Strawberry was suddenly raided by federal agents.”
“Many of our men were arrested, facing heavy fines, and all the moonshine there was confiscated.”
“I went to see Sheriff Hanley, but he told me there was nothing he could do—those agents work for the federal government.”
“From what we’ve heard, someone in Strawberry sent a letter to the feds, tipping them off. That’s why the agents showed up out of nowhere.”
“I even tried to bribe them with money, but they nearly arrested me too—only because they didn’t have solid evidence.”
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