After traveling a while longer, Stephen finally reached the outskirts of Blackwater.
From here on, he had officially arrived.
The landscape here was completely different from the Heartlands.
The ground was covered in yellow dust, and whenever the wind blew, it kicked up clouds of sand, forcing Stephen to pull up his face covering over his nose and mouth.
Vegetation was sparse.
Most of what grew here were low shrubs.
Only now did it truly feel like the wild West people always talked about.
Stephen had only been here once before, tracking down a fugitive.
That single visit had been enough.
He did not like the area around Blackwater.
It was too barren.
After riding along the river for quite some time, he finally saw buildings in the distance.
That marked the true edge of Blackwater.
The endless wilderness gave way to clusters of houses, farmland, and ranches.
Unlike Valentine, where filth covered the streets, Blackwater was prosperous and well-kept.
The roads were paved with stone, and horses with iron shoes produced a steady rhythm as they moved across them.
The entire town felt clean and orderly in comparison.
As a port town, it had everything.
theaters, photo studios, clothing stores.
The people on the streets were well dressed.
Men wore tailored suits, and women wore elegant outfits, holding parasols to shield themselves from the sun.
It was obvious most of them were either wealthy or well connected.
There were still laborers, of course, but even they looked cleaner than those in other places.
One thing stood out.
You didn’t see Black people, Asians, or Native Americans here at all.
Compared to other places, Blackwater was heavily segregated, which was one of the reasons Stephen disliked it.
And beneath the prosperity, there was tension.
Police stood guard at nearly every intersection.
Pinkerton agents in long coats questioned passersby one by one.
To avoid trouble, Stephen hid all his weapons under the saddle.
Even so, he had already been stopped several times.
He found a decent stable and brought his horse in, planning to have it properly cared for and fed.
Perhaps because of how well it had been treated at the Valentine stable before, the horse showed no resistance this time.
It walked inside on its own.
As usual, the white horse drew admiration.
The stable owner kept asking how much Stephen would sell it for.
Stephen refused again.
Over time, it had proven itself invaluable.
Whether traveling long distances or reacting in danger, it was exceptional.
The owner sighed in regret, insisting it could easily sell for over a thousand dollars.
After settling the horse, Stephen stepped back out and walked down the street.
He planned to find a saloon to rest, then look for a place to buy a camera.
He had not forgotten why he came.
He picked a decent-looking saloon and walked in.
It was a high-end place, more refined than most, almost like an upscale restaurant.
Stephen ordered two meals and ate slowly.
Afterward, he got two bottles of beer and sat at the bar, chatting casually with the bartender.
Through idle conversation, he learned quite a bit about the Van der Linde Gang in Blackwater.
According to the bartender, the police had shot one of their members and hung the body outside town for days.
It had only recently been taken down, buried without even a priest.
They had also captured a red-haired man, now locked up in the police station on the north side of town.
He was set to be hanged in a few days.
That had to be Sean MacGuire and Mac Callander.
Stephen had heard Arthur mention them before, more than once, always with regret.
Arthur had said that if there was any chance, they should try to rescue them.
Now, that was no longer possible.
One was already dead.
The other would not last much longer.
From what Stephen had seen, there was no way Arthur and the others could get anywhere near Blackwater now.
As for rescuing that unlucky man, Stephen had no interest.
He was not that generous.
“Is there anywhere in town that sells cameras?”
Stephen slid two bills across as a tip.
With that kind of money, the bartender became instantly enthusiastic.
“Sure.
Just down that street.
There’s a Kodak company store.
They sell the newest cameras.
About the size of a small box.”
He gestured as he spoke.
“After you take pictures, you can mail them the film.
They’ll develop it, package it, and send it back.”
“That convenient?” Stephen raised an eyebrow.
“Must be expensive.”
“Of course.
Latest technology, best service,” the bartender said matter-of-factly.
“My boss bought one.
Now he wanders around town every day saying he’s going to be a famous photographer.”
He shrugged.
“But honestly, he’s just a businessman.
All money and stinginess.
Not a drop of art in him.”
Stephen listened while watching the rain outside.
It was June, and a heavy storm had begun.
Lightning flashed.
Thunder rolled.
Rain poured down in sheets.
People on the street rushed for shelter, and a place like this quickly filled up.
Before long, the saloon was packed.
The bartender was practically beaming.
Everyone who came in would have to buy something before leaving.
Not forced.
Just… proper manners.
He moved nonstop, selling food and drinks, collecting tips so fast his hands barely kept up.
Stephen, slightly drunk, had no desire to go back out.
He made his way upstairs, where a game of blackjack was underway.
Seeing an empty seat, he joined in for a couple of rounds.
Maybe it was bad luck.
Maybe it was lack of skill.
After busting twice in a row, he lost interest completely.
Forget it.
Time to sleep.
Stephen returned to his room, pulled the blanket over his head, and shut out the world.