"Hey, don't even mention those Europeans. Shameless people, I tell you. When we first boarded the ship, they promised us $950 a week. But once we were out at sea, the weekly salary magically dropped to $900. The extra $50, they said, was for food!" Bill Zepheniah complained helplessly after hearing Edward Anderson mention his European stint. "I've been fishing for years, and this is the first time I've heard of sailors being charged for meals. I really wanted to jump off the boat and swim home—but I knew I'd never make it, so I just put up with it..."
Jiang Hai smiled as he listened and handed over a document. "This is the manor's employment contract. Take a look."
Bill's rant wasn't just venting—it was a subtle way of expressing loyalty. His message was clear: once he signed a contract, he stuck to it no matter what. Jiang Hai appreciated that kind of crew member.
Of course, if someone turned out to have poor character, Jiang Hai wouldn't hesitate to let them go.
"Hmm... this share..." Bill muttered after scanning the contract, his voice tinged with hesitation. A weekly salary of $1,000 for the first three months was very generous by U.S. standards, and he was genuinely pleased—surprised, even—that the work was local. But the share percentage caught him off guard.
He had worked on many fishing boats before, and typically even the smallest cuts amounted to around 1%. Jiang Hai's offer? Just 0.2%—a fifth of that. It puzzled him. According to everything he'd heard, Jiang Hai was a generous employer who looked after his people. Why was this cut so small?
"Our boss's fish aren't caught on the open sea," Edward Anderson explained, seeing the doubt in Bill's eyes. "We raise our own stock from fry, so what you'll be catching is farmed. Occasionally, we'll go out to sea, but the price our fish fetch is... well, beyond your imagination."
Bill furrowed his brows. "What do you mean?"
"Just what I said," Edward replied with a chuckle. "Let me put it this way: that 0.2% will earn you more than the 10% you'd get on other boats."
After a moment of thought, Bill nodded, then signed his name without another word.
"You made the right call," Edward said with a grin.
Life at Jiang Hai's manor was hard work, no doubt, but it had its perks—crew got to go home every night, meals were good, work was steady, and most importantly, it was safe. The weekly pay alone was enough to convince a seasoned man like Bill to join.
Once the contract was signed, Jiang Hai told Bill that he would be heading out with the crew that night. If everything went well, he could move in and bring his belongings the next day.
Bill had no objections and sat down, visibly relieved.
With one recruit secured, another man came forward. But after a short conversation, he left dejected. Edward Anderson explained that while the man had decent skills, he was a notorious alcoholic—prone to drinking and causing trouble. There was no place for that in Jiang Hai's operation.
So, with one successful hire and one rejection, the selection continued.
Hope rekindled among the crowd, and one by one, more candidates approached.
Three hours later, four individuals stood beside Jiang Hai and Edward Anderson: Bill Zepheniah, Bennett Rodney, Paul Raman, and Carlisle Cotton.
Bennett Rodney, a black man of Congolese descent, claimed distant relation to NBA star Dikembe Mutombo. Though the connection was remote, his physique was similarly imposing—over two meters tall, built like a tank, and despite being nearly 50 years old, he was still in top physical condition.
Edward was particularly fond of him. He was well-known in the industry for being clean, disciplined, and skilled. Though he was from Winthrop originally, he'd been working in New York's fishing scene until recently. When Jiang Hai began recruiting, his family encouraged him to return. He passed selection easily.
Next was Paul Raman, a Norwegian. He was white, stood about 1.8 meters tall, and was noticeably shorter than the others—Jiang Hai included. But his aura was unmistakable—he practically smelled of the sea. He looked like he belonged on the water.
Finally, there was Carlisle Cotton, another black man, standing over 1.9 meters tall. Shy by nature, he didn't speak much, but Edward vouched for him completely. He was quiet, reliable, and strong—exactly the kind of sailor Jiang Hai needed.
With these four selected, Jiang Hai and his team wrapped up the first round of recruitment. Jiang Hai needed to head over to the Cowboy Song Bar, while Edward brought the new hires to the manor docks. They would be heading out to sea that very night to test their skills—and Jiang Hai planned to join them.
The group agreed to reconvene at 10 p.m., giving Jiang Hai just enough time.
He drove to the Cowboy Song Bar, where cowboys were already gathered. Unlike the rugged sailors, the cowboys were much more enthusiastic. Most of them earned $20,000 to $30,000 a year at most. With Jiang Hai offering a base salary of over $50,000 (excluding bonuses), they were practically ecstatic.
When Robbins-Garcia arrived earlier, he had been swarmed by eager cowboys introducing themselves, pulling strings, and trying to make an impression. But in his heart, he drew a clear line—this wasn't about friendship.
After all, America is a country of rules, and Robbins understood Jiang Hai's mindset. If he recommended someone Jiang Hai didn't like, he risked losing a high-paying job. Unless it was close family—parents or siblings—there was no way he'd stake his future on anyone else.
So, while he smiled and nodded, he made no promises.
When Jiang Hai finally entered the bar, the mood shifted. Everyone turned to greet him, their faces eager and flattering.
Jiang Hai simply smiled, pushed through the crowd with calm confidence, and walked straight over to Robbins-Garcia.
"What's the situation?" he asked casually, declining Old Tony's offer of beer—he was still driving, after all.
"Three confirmed candidates," Robbins replied with a grin. "Now it's up to you."
"Bring them over."
They had agreed to hire three cowboys, just like they had hired four sailors earlier.
At his signal, a man in his thirties stepped forward. He was a white man, around 1.8 meters tall—not as bulky as the sailors, but neatly dressed in a shirt, cowboy vest, jodhpurs, leather boots, and a cowhide hat. With a beard and a calm demeanor, he carried himself with confidence.
"His name's Gladstone Narja," Robbins-Garcia introduced. "I met him yesterday. You two actually have a connection."
"Oh? We've met before?" Jiang Hai asked, frowning slightly. His memory was excellent. If he'd seen someone seriously, he never forgot them. But this man sparked no recognition.
"I used to work at the Carlett Company," Gladstone said, slightly embarrassed. "When you made that bet with Roslin Carlett, I was there—right next to you."
Jiang Hai's expression softened, slightly embarrassed himself.
"Gladstone was Carlett's top cowboy. Very well-known around here," Robbins added quickly, sensing Jiang Hai's hesitation. He didn't want a misunderstanding over something so minor.
Jiang Hai nodded. He wasn't so narrow-minded. The man had only worked for the Carlett Company—he wasn't part of its leadership. If this had been Roslin Carlett standing here, he would have ignored him. But a cowboy? It wasn't personal.
"Don't worry," Gladstone said with a chuckle. "When Carlett was recruiting, they first went after Robbins and Burke. When they turned it down, I got the offer."
Jiang Hai smiled. "Well, if you were their best, why leave? I assume they pay more than I do?"
"There's no such thing as a 'chief cowboy,'" Gladstone replied, shaking his head. "Above cowboys, it's all corporate. No matter how well we performed, our pay stayed the same. I came here for the money—and the opportunity."
Jiang Hai understood. It was like many other companies—where two employees in the same role, one hardworking and the other lazy, received the same salary. Promotions were often based on politics or connections. It sounded like Carlett operated that way too.
In fact, even at Jiang Hai's manor, salary within cowboy ranks didn't vary. Someone like Burke Dahler or Robbins-Garcia—who were leagues ahead of others like Philemon, Harriman, or Bell—still earned the same on paper. Skill alone didn't always change the pay scale.
"Well then, you're hired," Jiang Hai said decisively. "Come to the manor tomorrow and start your three-month trial. During that time, weekly pay is $1,000. If you perform well, we'll make you permanent and discuss new terms."
"Thank you, boss!" Gladstone beamed, signing the contract. But after finishing, he hesitated. "By the way… there's something I need to tell you."
Jiang Hai raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
"Well… before I left Carlett, I overheard something. I'm not sure how accurate it is, but it seemed like they were in contact with some Japanese company. I heard… they might be planning something against you. I don't know the details—I just caught bits and pieces. But I thought you should know."