Chapter 96: Inspiration from the Veteran
The negotiations with Cornwall, unsurprisingly, ended on a sour note.
But Davey wasn’t too worried.
Cornwall had only two ways to come after him—by targeting his legal status or by sabotaging his moonshine business.
The first wasn’t much of a threat. Davey Land was a legitimate immigrant, his papers approved and stamped by the federal government. The only real move Cornwall could make was through Sheriff Malloy.
But whether Malloy turned against him or got transferred elsewhere, Davey didn’t care.
If it came to that, he’d simply get rid of any uncooperative small-town sheriff.
Killing a tycoon might bring too much trouble—but in the West, a few dead sheriffs hardly raised eyebrows.
As for the moonshine business, that worried him even less.
Davey now used an offline distribution model.
Simply put, once Benedict finished brewing a batch, the moonshine was delivered to the Land Farm.
Davey had divided the surrounding areas into different sectors, each managed by its own moonshine agent.
For instance, Donal—Davey’s trusted right-hand man—handled Valentine and Strawberry.
Other ranches and farms had their own representatives as well.
They bought moonshine from Davey at $1.50 per bottle, then resold it for $1.80 or $2.00.
This setup spread the risk. Even if a shipment was robbed or damaged, the loss wouldn’t hurt Davey much.
If Cornwall tried hiring bounty hunters to disrupt his operation, he’d find it hard to do any real damage.
And chances were, Davey would notice the interference and strike back—hard.
After leaving Wells Restaurant, Davey turned to Mac.
“Mac, go back to camp and let Dutch know Cornwall’s in Valentine,” he said.
“Tell them he’s probably planning something against the gang, so they’d better be cautious for a while.”
Though Davey knew the Van der Linde Gang would come out of it unharmed, he wanted to show some goodwill.
Not toward Dutch, but toward the others in the gang.
Mac nodded. “Got it, Davey. I’ll head out now. You be careful.”
Davey grinned. “Relax, Mac. This is Valentine—our turf.”
After Mac left, Davey called for Abbas and told him to keep a close eye on Cornwall’s men.
The fact that Cornwall’s people had slipped into Valentine unnoticed made Davey realize his grip on the town still wasn’t firm enough.
Sure, Valentine had a large transient population, which made gathering intel tricky—but that was no excuse for missing Cornwall’s movements entirely.
Davey decided to set aside a portion of his earnings for intelligence work in Valentine.
Those working for him could be anyone—prostitutes drifting through hotels and saloons, newsboys hawking papers on street corners, even the town drunks and loafers.
He planned to have Abbas manage the whole network.
Just then, a voice called out nearby.
“Please, sir, spare me five cents—or ten. Anything would help.”
Davey turned toward the sound and saw Mickey, the old beggar veteran who wandered Valentine’s streets.
At first, Davey barely paid him any attention—but then, a thought flashed through his mind. His eyes lit up as he looked back at the old man.
Davey walked over.
Mickey’s eyes widened in pleasant surprise. “Hey there, brother!” he said.
But as he got a good look at Davey’s fine clothes, his tone grew more cautious. “I’m too old to find work anymore... Could we be friends, sir?”
“Of course,” Davey replied.
Hearing that, Mickey’s face broke into a trembling smile. “Thank you, sir. I haven’t had a friend in so long... so very long...”
“My last friend died. It wasn’t my fault... but they said it was. They were wrong...”
“Sir, being here with you... it makes me so happy.”
“Could... could I hug you, sir? Please?”
Though Mickey was filthy and ragged, Davey didn’t turn him away.
He stepped forward and gave the old man a hug.
“This feels so good,” Mickey murmured. “So good... Sometimes a hug just feels wonderful.”
“When I was in the war, we used to hug each other all the time. Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.”
Davey smiled, patting him on the shoulder like an old friend, then slipped a one-dollar coin into his coat pocket.
The gesture caught Mickey off guard—he beamed, mumbling words of gratitude over and over.
Davey knew this one-armed man named Mickey wasn’t really a veteran, but that didn’t bother him.
Because in that moment, an idea sparked in his mind.
In the US, labor unions were a crucial part of society.
They held great influence and authority—so much so that even giants like the Pinkerton Detective Agency had been brought low under the weight of union power.
Author's Note
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