Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Very well, Mr. Milton. I trust you'll bring me good news soon."

The man in the bowler hat dipped his head in farewell and retreated from the opulent drawing room, closing the door softly behind him.

The room's owner, Mr. Leviticus Cornwall, was in a foul temper. News had recently reached him that one of his trains had been robbed – ordinarily a minor inconvenience. He owned countless trains, and the loss of some coarse freight to petty thieves was merely a cost of doing business in these times. What truly ignited his fury was the theft of a substantial quantity of bearer bonds.

Truth be told, even these bonds were but a drop in the ocean for the fabulously wealthy Mr. Cornwall. But – "No man takes what belongs to Mr. Cornwall without paying the price!"

In this burgeoning industrial nation, few problems couldn't be solved with money. The Pinkerton Detective Agency was the finest law enforcement money could buy, far superior to the bumbling state police. Their fees were steep, certainly, but under their sleepless gaze, few outlaws – be they train robbers, moonshiners, or those radical rabble-rousers stirring up the workers – escaped unscathed.

"Colm O'Driscoll." Cornwall slammed his glass down onto the table, the name grinding between his teeth. "You will pay!"

"Sir, a visitor calling himself Aiden O'Malley requests an audience," the butler announced cautiously.

"I haven't the time," Cornwall growled, his face dark. Unscheduled callers were as common as flies, arriving by the regiment daily. He waved a dismissive hand, as if shooing away the news itself.

"He says… he says he has information concerning the O'Driscoll Boys. Information that might interest you."

Cornwall's waving hand froze.

"Show him in." Cornwall paused. "Disarmed."

"Please summon Mr. Aiden O'Malley, Mr. Melvin Tacitus, and Mr. Fenton Callahan to the drawing room. They await at the front gate," the butler instructed a footman, once given his orders.

Minutes later, several rough-looking men filled Cornwall's drawing room. Aiden O'Malley was dressed with a semblance of care; Cornwall noted the fine velvet of his waistcoat, though the man's gaudy gold chain and rings betrayed his country bumpkin taste. As for Callahan… his ancient, battered hat, crumpled coat, and grimy shirt were deeply offensive to Cornwall's sensibilities. He wouldn't have been surprised to learn the man was an outlaw fresh from the deserts of New Austin.

"So… Mr. O'Malley," Cornwall began warily, "you claim to have… intelligence… on the O'Driscoll gang?"

"You're rushin' things, Mr. Cornwall. Ain't even introduced ourselves proper. For guests who've come a ways, shouldn't you at least offer coffee? 'Specially when they're carryin' somethin' you might find mighty interestin'?" O'Malley's smile was pleasant, but brooked no refusal.

"Coffee for these… gentlemen," Cornwall ordered the footman after a moment's hesitation.

"Much obliged for your hospitality – close that door now, would ya? Thank ya, that's better. I'm an honest man, Mr. Cornwall. Plumb honest. So I ain't aimin' to hide who I am." Satisfied they were alone, he pulled out a copy of the Blackwater Ledger and unfolded it, placing it before Cornwall. "Seein' as you're a man keen on figures, I reckon you'll spot right quick that standin' in your drawin' room this minute… is fifteen thousand dollars."

Cornwall glanced down. Prominently displayed on the open newspaper was a Wanted poster:

WANTED

DEAD OR ALIVE

DUTCH VAN DER LINDE

ROBBERY. MURDER.

$5,000 REWARD

The face staring back from the poster was precisely that of his uninvited guest.

"We figured this'd save us all some trouble, sir," spoke the grey-haired Melvin Tacitus, who had been silent until now. His smile mirrored O'Malley's – courteous, yet unyielding. "Hosea Matthews, at your service."

"So, Mr. Van der Linde," Cornwall said, his voice dangerously low, "I trust you don't intend to compensate me for my losses at O'Driscoll's hands with your own head."

"No, no. 'Course not, sir. See, I'm a country bumpkin, but I ain't a fool," Van der Linde replied easily, taking a leisurely drag on his cigar. "Mighty fine smoke, sir."

"In that case," Cornwall pressed, "what business brings the illustrious leader of the Van der Linde gang to my humble abode?"

"Business, naturally, my dear sir. This is America. Ain't nothin' here that ain't business. We risked the hangman's noose to call on the most successful businessman around… what else could we expect?"

Chapter Text

"Well," Cornwall inquired, leaning back, "are you here to buy, or to sell? Fifteen thousand dollars would just about cover my losses from that robbery. And seein' as my guards are right outside that door... whatever you're offerin' better be worth more than that."

"Naturally, naturally," Hosea Matthews replied smoothly. "We bring considerable value, Mr. Cornwall. The most valuable commodity bein' the damn life of Colm O'Driscoll himself. All we ask in return is a little… sponsorship."

"You mean you want me to hire you to deal with Colm O'Driscoll." Mr. Cornwall crossed a leg, boot resting on his knee. "But it seems plain you know I already have the Pinkerton National Detective Agency on retainer. I bought the best service—"

"Pinkertons." The word dripped with contempt from all three men. Dutch answered, a wry smile twisting his lips. "Mr. Cornwall, you know how many times that snake Colm has already danced on the gallows? Law has its place, sure. But sometimes, men outside the law have their uses. We ain't bound by their rulebooks. Colm's cunning, sir, more than you reckon. If the law could catch him proper, Colm O'Driscoll would be dead more than five times over."

"You pay the Pinkertons fifteen thousand," Hosea added, his voice calm but pointed, "best they can likely do is hand Colm over to the State Police for a hangin'. That ain't the same as you beatin' him. We're different. Nobody knows an outlaw like another outlaw. Leastways, we can guarantee if he swings, he stays swung. And truth told, like I said, we can do considerably more."

"All we need," Dutch continued, spreading his hands, "is a small loan. Seed money to establish a… security consulting firm, Mr. Cornwall. Repayment, principal and interest, is a certainty. On top of that, we guarantee Colm O'Driscoll's death. Inside a year. And it'll all be done legal-like, of course."

"You boys are certainly plainspoken," Cornwall conceded, steepling his fingers. "One last question, though: Why me? Or rather, why O'Driscoll?"

"Old scores. New grievances. Matters of the frontier, you understand," Dutch said dismissively. "Though, you got old Milton workin' for you. I reckon he'll confirm it quick enough… along with our reputation. The Van der Linde gang keeps its word."

"Carrying bounties as high as yours," Cornwall warned, his eyes sharp, "my terms won't be generous."

"Ah, Mr. Cornwall," Hosea chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "You are a shrewd businessman. Mighty shrewd. Truth is, I admire the cut of your jib. If it weren't for your… pragmatism, men like us wouldn't be sittin' here takin' tea with gentlemen such as yourself. But really now," his tone grew subtly harder, "a bunch of outlaws operatin' in West Elizabeth… what concern is that to the sheriffs of other states? We ain't bound for Lemoyne or Ambarino. We can move free enough even in New Hanover. Raisin' the vig on that account seems a mite unreasonable. Besides," he added casually, "we hear tell the Foreman Brothers, the Lemoyne Raiders, the Murfree Brood… they got powerful enemies and hefty prices on their heads too. In these parts, a new security firm has… options when choosin' partners. 'Course, while we're busy tanglin' with the Raiders, well… how much more damage them O'Driscoll boys might do to your interests… that just wouldn't be our foremost concern…"

"Is that a threat, Mr. van der Linde?" Cornwall's face flushed crimson, his voice a low growl.

"Why, no sir, Mr. Cornwall," Dutch replied, his smile widening but not reaching his eyes. "This is business. Just regular horse-tradin'. What possible ill-will could we harbor towards you? We're just small-time fellas, seekin' an opportunity, standin' before a true gentleman." Despite the polite words, Cornwall heard the faintest edge of mockery in the tone.

I don't like these men. The conclusion formed instantly in Cornwall's mind. Yet, he had to admit the cold logic in the outlaws' proposal. He feared no gang, O'Driscoll or otherwise. But being targeted, suffering raids on his trains and works – that was a persistent nuisance. And Leviticus Cornwall was a man who abhorred nuisance.

"I cannot give you an answer today," Cornwall stated, rising from his deep armchair – a clear signal the meeting was over. "This requires careful consideration. Should I decide… how would I contact you?"

"You won't need to." The big man who'd called himself Fenton Callahan, silent and imposing until now, finally spoke. His voice was like gravel. "We'll pay a visit. One month."

"We look forward to your favorable decision, Mr. Cornwall," Hosea Matthews said with a courteous tip of his hat. He followed Dutch van der Linde and the looming figure of Fenton Callahan out the door.

Chapter Text

"You ain't yourself today, Dutch," the big man grumbled as he stepped out the door.

"I know exactly what I'm doing, Arthur," Dutch declared with satisfaction, swinging onto his Arabian stallion, Count. With a kick of his heels, he led the two men out in a cloud of dust.

Hoofbeats drummed across the wild plain where thin frost began to lace the ground, soon giving way to deep, white snow. The three riders pulled heavy coats tight around them, pushing deeper into the high mountains until they reached a deserted hamlet called Colter.

"Who goes there!" a sentry bellowed from the village entrance, squinting through the falling snow.

"It's Arthur, you damn fool!" Fenton Callahan – though he went by Arthur Morgan more often than not – shouted back, flakes catching in his beard.

"The heroes are back!" the sentry called out towards the cabins.

"Fenton…" Arthur muttered, the name tasting sour. "That's a damn fool name. Why you gotta saddle me with it, Dutch?"

"'Cause I miss Hosea somethin' fierce," came the cryptic reply. "Now, names don't signify. What matters is you know I always got your back, right Arthur?"

"'Course," Arthur answered almost by reflex. Then Dutch's question truly registered. "Hold on… you mean…?"

"Nothin'," Dutch said, not looking at him, just waving a dismissive hand. "C'mon. Let's palaver. I got a plan…"

"You always do, Dutch."

"This is a good one."

For a split second, Arthur thought he saw a flicker of pity – maybe even guilt – cross Dutch's face. But he shook it off quick. Knowing Dutch like he did, he couldn't fathom a single thing Dutch Van der Linde would need to feel guilty about towards him.

"The times are changin', Arthur," Dutch said after a quiet moment, almost to himself. "You might wonder why I'd parley with scum like Cornwall. Might think I've changed. But change… We can't fight change. We can't fight gravity. But you mark my words, Arthur: this time, I get us all through alive. Bill!" Dutch suddenly barked, turning to the sentry. "Where's that O'Driscoll boy?"

"Locked in the barn, like you said," Bill answered, scratching the back of his head. "Untied, fed, warm… just ain't allowed out. Dutch, since when you gettin' so neighborly with O'Driscolls—"

"My quarrel's only with the O'Driscolls who put lead in men who ride with me, Mr. Williamson," Dutch stated flatly. "That poor kid was just a wrangler."

"What if they use a knife?" Arthur shot back.

"Oh, shut up, Fenton. Get over here!"

The two men ducked into a log cabin, rubbing their hands near the crackling stove. Dutch pulled a small bottle from his coat pocket and handed it to Arthur.

"Take a taste. Tell me what you think."

"Ain't bad," Arthur said after pulling the cork and sniffing. He took a swallow. "Moonshine?"

"Hope," Dutch corrected him with grim satisfaction, taking the bottle back. "The next age."

"You aimin' to turn bootlegger? That's your plan?"

"It's part of it," Dutch said, studying the devil's brew in his hand. "Mark my words, Arthur. Prohibition is comin'. Nationwide. What do you reckon happens then?"

"I… I don't know, Dutch. We ain't never run liquor. Can it even pay?" Arthur thought of the small-time shiners he'd crossed paths with. "Small fry. Fellas cookin' in their root cellars or some lonely holler, peddlin' jars for pin money. Never heard of no gang makin' real money off it."

"Men will always thirst for whiskey, Arthur," Dutch insisted, his eyes burning. "Like they thirst for freedom. A few women takin' a beatin' from a drunken husband, a few Bible-thumpin' fools preachin' fire and brimstone… that ain't gonna quench it. When folks get sick of the watered-down piss the government peddles… we'll be their Prometheus!"

Arthur still wasn't convinced, but his loyalty held. "If you say so, Dutch."

Dutch sighed. "Changin' trail is hard, Arthur. But it's got to be done. Alright. I need to jaw with Hosea on the particulars. Reckon you got your own business… huntin' that three-star raccoon, or whatever it is…"

"...What the hell you talkin' about?"

"Ah, damn, my mind's wanderin'. We're still at Colter. Anyway, ride on. The snow's let up. Hosea knows a spot near Big Valley called Horseshoe Overlook – good place to lay low for a spell. Get ready to pull out in a day or two. But don't stray too far. We got an appointment with Mr. Cornwall next month."

Chapter Text

Convincing the shrewd and miserly Cornwall to provide such a loan was no easy feat. Likely, Inspector Milton's intelligence played a role, persuading Mr. Cornwall that this band of desperate outlaws genuinely intended to go straight. More crucially, their blood feud with those damn O'Driscolls was undeniable. He needn't doubt the sincerity of these brutes in their intent to deal with Colm – they'd do it even without pay. So, they sat safely in Cornwall's parlor, without a gang of bounty hunters pointing guns at their heads.

Hosea had struggled mightily to get Cornwall to accept that "holding shares isn't a good idea." Cornwall remained deeply suspicious they'd simply vanish with the cash.

"If that happens," he threatened, "I wouldn't mind paying the Pinkertons a little extra to give you gentlemen a proper… reception."

"Oh, we wouldn't let such unpleasantness occur," Dutch promised smoothly. "But holding shares – you heard Mr. Matthews' suggestion. Our work is, well… not entirely reputable. I doubt you'd want your company legally tied to *some* of our ventures. Granted, you might not mind, but it would certainly heap unnecessary paperwork upon you."

Cornwall stared hard at Dutch. The thought of handing these three ruffians over to the state police had crossed his mind. But Milton had warned him; their capacity for destruction surpassed even the O'Driscolls. More unsettlingly, their tale of Colm repeatedly escaping the hangman's noose was true. Handing them over for the fifteen-thousand-dollar bounty offered no guarantee they wouldn't come back alive. True, he believed the Pinkerton National Detective Agency would eventually finish them, but what losses might he suffer from their vengeance before that day came? His interests in the territory were vast; risking them for a mere fifteen grand was poor business. Cornwall was no coward afraid of risk, but he knew when to yield lesser gains. Calculated risk and prudent caution – that's how he stayed on top.

"Alright," he finally nodded. "Let's discuss the loan amount and interest."

Dutch walked out of Cornwall's mansion once more, satisfied. The interest wasn't low, but he'd secured the most crucial thing for the Van der Linde gang: breathing room.

"Well, well, look who we have here," came a voice as the three men headed for their horses. A man in a bowler hat approached. Dutch and Arthur's hands flew to their holsters. The newcomer held his hands low and open, showing no hostile intent.

"Hello, Mr. Milton."

"Easy now, Van der Linde. I'm not here for you today," declared Andrew Milton, the old chief inspector of the Pinkertons, his tone dripping with arrogance. "Mr. Cornwall has informed me. In the matter of hunting down Colm O'Driscoll, we are… partners." A smile, mingling disdain and mockery, touched his lips. "Aren't we, Van der Linde?"

Competitors was the obvious truth. But Cornwall, burning to see Colm dance at the end of a rope, was loath to waste a force like the Van der Lindes – fighters who could kill and held a grudge against Colm. In Cornwall's words, it was a shame to let such an asset sit idle. The client's word was law. So, for now, the Pinkertons couldn't trouble the Van der Linde gang – at least, not openly.

"I'd say we share a common goal," Dutch replied, his hand easing off his gun. "But understand this: Colm's life belongs to me – to *us*. Not to some incompetent clown like you."

"Don't get cocky, Van der Linde," Milton hissed, fist clenched. "Blackwater isn't settled. You think Mr. Cornwall will indulge you forever?"

"Ah, you remind me, Mr. Milton," Dutch shot back, meeting the detective's glare without flinching. "If memory serves, for the past six years, you've been barred from government contracts. Restricted to 'protective security and guard duties,' wasn't it? The losses at Blackwater were from a federal payroll shipment – the *federal government*. That falls squarely under the Anti-Pinkerton Act, wouldn't you agree? So, tell me, *is* this current hunt even within your jurisdiction?" [1]

Milton stayed silent. Had the government – or even Cornwall – hired them as bounty hunters for this job, old scores could be settled. But the government couldn't hire them, and Cornwall was single-mindedly focused on punishing the O'Driscolls who'd shamed him. He clearly had no desire to pay extra to deal with the Van der Lindes.

The Pinkerton National Detective Agency was, ultimately, just a business. Its loyalty belonged solely to its paying clients.

"We'll see, old dog," Dutch said, swinging into the saddle. Ignoring Milton's stony expression, the three men dug in their heels and rode away.

––––––––––––

[1] The Anti-Pinkerton Act was a law passed by the U.S. Congress in 1893 to limit the federal government's ability to hire private investigators or mercenaries. Just as the Pinkerton National Detective Agency was a real historical entity, this decree is also a genuine historical document.

Chapter Text

"We really gonna be lawmen? You always said only the sorriest sons-of-bitches worked for their kind—" Arthur asked again, disbelief heavy in his voice as they rode back towards camp.

"I must say, Arthur, your doubting does wear a man thin. No," Dutch boomed, the wind whipping their words as their horses ate up the trail, "we ain't aimin' to become no Pinkertons. Them bastards made their name bustin' heads at labor riots. That's why I won't see Cornwall get his hooks in deep. Once we send Colm to his Maker, that snake'd have us shootin' miners in Annesburg for him."

"So, this 'security consulting'… it's just a ruse? To make nice with Cornwall?"

"Yes… and no." Dutch held up a finger. "Our lovely merchandise is fragile, see? To move it smooth, don't we need reliable, armed salesmen?"

"'Armed' I got no quarrel with. But moonshine salesmen…"

"You oughta read the papers sometime, Arthur. Prohibition's comin'. The President's been taxin' liquor near thirty years. Mark my words, inside twenty years, there'll be a dry law coast to coast – don't give me that look. Read the papers, you'd see it plain." Dutch spoke the words, but his mind added, Read the devil you do. Big sheet like that, you just skim the headlines. "And shine's just the first step. More folks live in cities now than out here. Makin' a livin' in the dust and sagebrush? That dream's dyin'. We head for the cities, Arthur."

"I don't like cities," Arthur grumbled.

"Nor do I," Dutch said, tilting his hat back. "But the old ways are fadin'. We got to change. What say you, Hosea?"

"Leviticus," Hosea mused. "A curious name. Doesn't fit the man's deeds at all. But… it's a start. I'm hopeful about this partnership, Dutch. And Arthur? Listen to Dutch. His notions might seem wild, but he's right. The old days are gone. We got to change."

"Ah, Leviticus," Dutch nodded. "Dry reading, mostly. But it says, 'an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; as he hath caused a blemish in a man, so shall it be done to him again.' Now that… I like."

"So the Pinkertons… they'll really call off the dogs? Never knew you knew law, Dutch," Arthur asked after a moment's silence.

"Told you," Dutch said, a hint of pride in his voice. "Read the papers."

They rode into Horseshoe Overlook, heading for Dutch's tent. Before they could dismount, pounding hooves and a frantic shout cut the air: " Dutch! Arthur ...! They got Micah..."

"What's the matter?"

"They got Micah... He's been arrested for murder. He was in Strawberry and... " It was Lenny, stumbling towards them, gasping for breath.

So it's come, Dutch thought, rubbing his jaw. A thorny problem. Truth was, he wouldn't shed a tear if the bastard swung. But…

"That fool brought this on himslef! That son of a bitch Micah, just let him stay in Strawberry. A noose'd go right pretty with that shirt of his," Arthur spat, his disgust plain.

"Arthur!... I can't just cut loose a member of this gang 'cause I don't like him – or you don't," Dutch sighed again. "Though Lord knows I ain't fond of him…"

"Then why'd you bring him in?"

"Believe me, son, I ask myself that same question regular… 'Dutch van der Linde, you damn fool, why'd you bring that viper in?'" Dutch tapped his temple. "Truth? I got no stomach for pullin' his fat from the fire. But I got no reason not to – not for him, for the others. Dutch just abandons one of his own? What'll the others think? Will Dutch cut me loose someday, same as Micah?"

"No, I ain't saving that fool." Arthur turned to leave, but Dutch grabbed his arm.

"Then help me find a reason we can give 'em," he hissed, low enough only Arthur could hear. "Or… help me find another way. Any other way."

Before Arthur could answer, Dutch's voice boomed out again, back to its usual force. "You take that kid into town," he pointed at Lenny, slumped on the ground. "Valentine, not Strawberry, get him drunk, and Arthur ... no crazy business."

For some reason, Arthur thought Dutch was fighting back a grin.

"And about Micah… you help me… figure a plan."

Chapter Text

Though Dutch had dropped hints about his interest in the shine business in private, Arthur saw little sign he was truly workin' out the gritty details. Days had passed since word came back about Micah, and Dutch still seemed in no hurry to act on that either. Every time Arthur passed his tent, Dutch was just starin' at that big map like it held the secrets of the world. Arthur had taken a look himself. The map was covered thick with scrawls and marks, words like "GOLD BARS," "WAR VET," "WIDOW LADY" – none of it makin' much sense. Near one small homestead, Dutch had even written "TUBERCULOSIS" big and bold, markin' it with three giant exclamation points and a skull. Amongst Dutch's tangled mess of circles, lines, and arrows, Arthur finally managed to find Horseshoe Overlook. From there, a long arrow pointed straight south. Arthur squinted at its tip, makin' out the name of a town: Rhodes. Near it, two big plantations sprawled across the land. Over this whole area, Dutch had scrawled one huge word: "MOONSHINE," circled like a hangman's noose around both estates.

South? Dutch headin' south? Weren't he always cussin' them Dixie boys?

Arthur couldn't puzzle it out. Thinkin' deep never was his strong suit. He turned and saw Dutch standin' tall in the center of camp. Looked like the man had somethin' to say.

"Micah... talked. He sold us out."

Dutch's voice was hard as flint as he addressed the men and women of the gang. "I believed his lies. Cost us Jenny. Cost us the Callander boys. Cost us every cent we'd scraped together since this gang was born. You know the code. We oughta put a bullet in him ourselves. But times like these... I ain't riskin' another soul of this family on somethin' as costly as revenge."

Arthur hadn't figured this was Dutch's answer. Thanks to Micah bein' about as popular as a rattler in a bedroll, nobody raised a fuss.

But there was more.

"Now, I know doubts might be creepin' in. 'What's got into Dutch?' 'Why's Dutch borrowin' from wolves like Cornwall?' 'Why's Dutch shakin' hands with Pinkerton dogs?'

"My friends, my brothers, my sisters! Our dream, that freedom, it still burns bright. But right now, our most important job... is stayin' alive."

Dutch started to pace, slow and deliberate, unfoldin' his vision. Arthur watched him. That old Dutch, brimmin' with confidence and fire, seemed to be standin' right there again.

"...And in the end, when we've dug our roots deep in the city, them so-called 'better folk', them suited-up killers and thieves who murder and rob more than any of us ever dreamed... they'll crawl. They'll crawl at our feet, beggin' for the order we lay down in our kingdom beneath the streets! You gotta believe in me! You gotta stand with me! You gotta have... FAITH! Now, get to work! The O'Driscolls! The Lemoyne Raiders! The Foremans! The Murfrees! The Skinner Brothers! Every rival we ever had, and every pussy who never deserved the name... run 'em down! Help the workin' man hold onto what's his! Help the honest folk feel safe in their beds!"

Arthur walked over, strikin' a match to light Dutch's cigar. "So you're set on this trail, then?"

"Truth told, Arthur, I'm damn glad it was Ike Skelding got his hands on Sean," Dutch muttered low. "That breed of bounty hunter, roamin' in packs? they ain't the real threat. But them Pinkerton sons-of-bitches? they're different. Arthur, I trust you. So I'll tell you this, but keep it close: I got no stomach for a straight-up fight with Pinkertons or Cornwall. Call it lack of grit if you will, but this gang's survival rests on my shoulders."

"I reckon you've bought us some peace for now. We lay low awhile, that Blackwater job... it'll fade."

"Aye, that particular shadow ain't weighin' so heavy anymore. You'd never guess what's gnawin' at me most right now," Dutch said, lookin' straight at Arthur.

"What's that?"

"Miss O'Shea." Dutch let out a long, weary sigh. "Truth, Arthur... you think she truly fits with us? Belongs here?"

"Course not," Arthur answered, quick and firm.

"Nor do I," Dutch grunted, lightin' a fresh cigar. "Heard tell she's got kin in Saint Denis. Thought maybe sendin' her there..."

"She'll break, Dutch."

"She'll understand. I ain't as lucky as you, Arthur. You and Mary... you were sensible folk..."

Arthur stiffened. Talk of Mary amongst the gang usually carried a sour edge, folks thinkin' she'd done him wrong. Hearin' Dutch speak well of her, that was a first.

"...But me and Miss O'Shea... we weren't. Leastways, the folks we were back then weren't. She don't belong here. Never should have. Gotta figure out a plan..."

Chapter Text

The deed was done. "Blackwater Security Consulting Company" was set to ride, come hell or high water. The name had kicked up more dust than a startled mustang amongst the boys, but Dutch held firm. He always did.

"Books," Dutch declared, his voice leaving no room for argument, "I've read 'em. That means I make the calls. Blackwater it is. Now quit your bellyachin'. Just 'cause we got a fancy handle don't mean we're lickin' the government's boots. Our sights are still set square on those old wolves who forgot how to run with the pack." He paused, drawing deep on his cigar. "Leastways, we treat our captives decent... unlike some."

Dutch talkin' moonshine again, Arthur thought, shifting his weight against the wall.

"Dutch," a voice called from the gathered shadows, thick with doubt, "you meanin' that O'Driscoll whelp? What's he got to do with our... company?"

"Makin' a point, is all," Dutch waved a dismissive hand. "Ain't nobody been roughin' him up lately, have they?"

Abigail offered a thin smile. "Little Jack took a notion to heave a rock at him first day. I put a stop to that. Can't speak for others."

"See he's treated square. Kid didn't choose the O'Driscoll brand. Was forced." Dutch jabbed his cigar towards the corner where Kieran Duffy huddled like a scared jackrabbit. "Left to himself, he'd be knee-deep in horse apples on some spread, savin' pennies for his own livery stable someday... He ain't so different. Enemy of Colm, same as us." Dutch's gaze softened, though he pretended not to see the boy scrubbing at his eyes. "In this outfit, Mr. Duffy, you tend them horses. My word on it. Nobody lays a hand on you." He turned sharply. "Mr. Strauss. Took my advice, I trust? Eased off the loan-sharkin'?"

"Yes, yes, Dutch," Strauss replied, his usual calm laced with the quiet bitterness of a man feelin' useless. "Work's been scarce..."

"You'll have plenty. This company needs a sharp money-man. That's our next order of business – divvyin' up the work proper..."

By the time the talk wound down, Dutch van der Linde stood tall as Chairman of the Blackwater Security Consulting Company. Never mind they didn't even have a roof to call their own yet.

"Time to earn our keep," Dutch announced, slapping a battered notebook against his palm – the sole record of their first 'board meetin'. "The girls done fine work scoutin'. We got a list of a dozen gang nests in these parts. Next move: find their fat-cat enemies, settle on a price, then ride in and settle 'em." His eyes hardened. "Mark this – there's a pesthole in the swamps called Shady Belle. Lemore Raiders' main hole. Leave it be. Ain't the time for that fight. Alright, mount up! Arthur – word with you."

"On you, Dutch."

Arthur hadn't figured Dutch's plan for Miss O'Shea would be so plain: him and Javier, escort duty, straight run to Saint Denis.

"She knows Horseshoe Overlook, Dutch. Knows where we hole up."

"Arthur, for pity's sake! We're legitimate businessmen now! What harm if they know? Besides," Dutch leaned in, lowering his voice, "while you two see her safe, Charles'll scout south near Scarlet Meadows. Place called Clemons Point. That's where we'll plant the company flag. Though..." He rubbed his chin, conceding the point. "Reckon you got a sliver of sense there. Best keep our heads down. A woman scorned, specially one runnin' on love and desperation... well, you never know."

"Sounds like speakin' from experience."

"'Course it does." Dutch offered a weary, helpless smile. "Get ready for Saint Denis. Few in this outfit are respected by Miss O'Shea. You're one."

"You alright, Dutch?"

"Fine." Dutch tapped ash from his cigar, staring into the middle distance. "You might've noticed... since Colter... I been tryin' to talk with her proper. Partin' ways... it cuts deep. Specially when she gave up near everything..."

"She did."

"Can't make that square. Not even with my life. A broke man ain't got coin to give her – hell, that money ain't mine, it's company funds now, and my own poke's near empty..." He shook his head bitterly. "Besides, tossin' gold at a story like this? That's salt in the wound. Maybe Charles had the right of it. Knowin' your time's up, gettin' a chance to make some thin amends... that's a kind of mercy."

"Charles said that?" Arthur frowned. "Man barely strings two words together."

"Might not say it to you. But he'd nod. Solid brother. Talk to him more." Dutch straightened, pulling something from his coat. "One last thing. Take this." He pressed a small, creased map into Arthur's hand. Ink marks dotted its surface. "Where the gold sleeps. Go alone. Some spots... ain't easy reachin'. Watch your step. Wouldn't do to fall."

"You know this eastern country mighty well, Dutch."

A ghost of the old grin touched Dutch's lips. "Yeah. Thanks to you, son."

Chapter Text

The gang—Arthur much preferred that term to "company"—had found a measure of clarity and lifted spirits since moving to Clemens Point. The fog of failure that clung to them after Blackwater seemed to be thinning. Though little coin had been wrung from Horseshoe Overlook, they'd gotten Sean back, shed Micah, and found a path forward. Best of all, the bounty hunters hadn't exactly been beating a path to their door.

"You notice," Dutch said to Hosea, his tone deceptively casual, "Mister Trelawny seems to have gone quiet on us?"

"He has at that," Hosea agreed, thinking back. "Ought we to pick up his trail?"

"I've a notion…" Dutch said slowly. "We'll need eyes on Rhodes. Got a feelin' we'll find word of him there. And while we're at it… ain't there an Anderson Boys nearabouts? Tell the girls, when they're askin' after Trelawny, to listen sharp for news on that outfit."

"Workin' already, are we?"

"It's good work." Dutch offered one of his inscrutable smiles. "We're new neighbors. Only polite to call on the old residents. Pay our respects. Bring a little housewarmin' gift. Make a good impression. Basic manners, ain't it?"

"And how do you figure on doin' that?" Hosea asked, genuinely curious now.

"That's where Trelawny comes in…" Dutch lowered his voice and began to lay out his plan.

Josiah Trelawny was run to ground by Dutch and the others near Scarlett Meadows. He'd drifted south ahead of the gang's move, scenting opportunity, but found the local good ol' boys trickier prey than he'd reckoned. His plan had been to fleece some rich fool with talk of a gold mine that didn't exist. He'd misjudged badly. If Dutch and his boys hadn't found him when they did, warning him the mark had grown suspicious, he'd have walked right into a meeting and straight into the arms of bounty hunters lying in wait.

"Forget those penny-ante tricks fit for bumpkins," Dutch said, practically shoving Trelawny onto a horse. "I got a real play. Ride back with Hosea to Clemens Point. He'll fill you in. Arthur! John! Javier! With me! We're goin' callin'!"

Sheriff Leigh Gray would remember his first meetin' with Hodge McIntosh. He'd been stewin' on how to handle a local nuisance calling themselves the Anderson Boys – specifically, how to do it cheap. The bounty hunters' prices were downright insulting, far beyond what a small-town law budget could stomach. But handlin' it himself… well, recent manpower shortages made that prospect awkward.

Beyond the ancestral Caliga Hall, the Gray family's writ ran strongest over this small town covered in rust-colored soil. Sure, they answered to the state police, but this was America. Who didn't know how Uncle Sam *really* ran places like this? Keepin' the peace in Rhodes was the very business of Gray family; the tin star on the Sheriff's vest was mostly just for ease of dealin' with the government.

But the Gray family wasn't the only power in west Lemoyne. The Braithwaites had backed the wrong horse in the war, shrinkin' their influence some, but they still held considerable sway. Word was they had friends in high places down Saint Denis way. Lately, Sheriff Gray had caught wind of moonshine movin' – and damn fine shine it was, to his practiced palate. Hard to imagine that happenin' without Braithwaite fingers in the pie. Simple truth was, if the Grays weren't runnin' it, who else *could*?

The Sheriff didn't much mind the shine itself. The problem was the tax it dodged. Collectin' Rhodes' taxes was Gray family business too. Letting liquor revenue slip away? Unthinkable. Especially lettin' it slip to those Braithwaite snakes.

So he'd had to send the sharper young Grays to deal with the shine problem. That left only young Archibald MacGregor down at the station – a lad whose head wasn't exactly stuffed with smarts – to help him run the Andersons to ground. Anders Anderson was small fry in this age of outlaws, but sendin' the boy after him was a death sentence. Maybe for them both.

Just as the Sheriff steeled himself to tell Archibald to fetch those pricey bounty hunters and agree to their terms, strangers darkened his office door.

"Mornin', Sheriff Gray," the lead man said. He gave a nod behind him. A big fella shouldered his way in, dumped a man trussed up tighter'n a Christmas goose onto the floor in front of the desk. The bound man was spitting a string of curses. The big man dusted his hands and tipped his hat. "Reckon you know this fella?"

Sheriff Gray's eyes widened. He bent down and yanked the struggling figure up by the hair to get a look at his face. It was Anders Anderson, the very man he'd been fixin' to hunt.

Chapter Text

"Hodge McIntosh," the burly leader extended his hand. "You must be Sheriff Gray – I hope I ain't mistaken, for that'd be mighty poor manners."

"I'm the Sheriff Gray you're lookin' for. You boys new bounty hunters in these parts?"

"Not exactly." The big man shifted slightly, revealing the men behind him. "We represent a security consulting company. Been here a short spell, just long enough to see them wanted posters you put up..."

"A consulting company? Like the Pinkerton Agency?"

"Our line of work ain't quite the same, Sheriff. We operate with... more flexibility. And we ain't as purely profit-driven as them Pinkertons. Why, see here, we brought this Mr. Anderson to you gratis. No charge."

"Then I reckon maybe I'm expected to pay in somethin' more valuable than cash?" Sheriff Gray asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

"Not at all," the big man chuckled, explaining. "We're engaged in advertisement presently. See it as a new American art form. Ensures you get the right service... should you ever need it."

Arthur marveled at the sheer audacity. Was this Dutch's plan all along? He'd befriended Sheriff Gray with a few bottles of whiskey and somehow walked away with a deputy's badge.

"See now, this simplifies things considerable," Dutch boomed, clapping Sheriff Gray heartily on the shoulder. "You, bein' official law, naturally couldn't hire a private outfit like ours direct. But Hodge McIntosh wearin' a deputy star for Rhodes? Why, that solves the problem neat as a pin, don't it?"

"Course you— can!" Sheriff Gray slurred, puffing out his chest. "I am the duly... duly elected peace officer of this district! I got the right— the authority to appoint my own deputies!"

When the night grew deep and heavy, Dutch had completed yet another step in his grand design. With a sharp whistle, he led his cowboys out, their horses pounding the trail towards Flat Iron Lake.

Arthur recalled the map spread out in Dutch's tent. Rhodes – a vital spoke in the wheel of Dutch's moonshine scheme. Are we truly gonna turn bootleggers?

But days turned into weeks, and the gang showed no sign of acquiring so much as a single still. A restless unease settled on Arthur. We've never pushed this far east before. What in blazes are we doin' here?

"I don't savvy it, Dutch," Arthur finally confronted him one evening, after the tales around the campfire had died down. He found Dutch near his tent. "I seen what you wrote on that map. We're in Rhodes now, right where you marked it for the shine trade. Yet you ain't set up a single jug, just got us wearin' deputy stars."

"Aw, come now, Arthur," Dutch said, clapping him on the back. "I said we needed to pay a visit to our future neighbors. So tell me, what've you learned ridin' around? 'Where the fish sells cheapest'?" His tone held gentle mockery. "That old Gray? Looks like a drunken fool, but he's sharp as a tack underneath it. And he knows the Braithwaites, that nest of inbred vipers, right well. He's right about one thing: those slave-drivers never bent the knee to the Union, not before the war, not during it. Don't know what deal they struck to keep holdin' all that land afterwards, but that ain't our concern. What is our concern is the real power skulkin' in these shadows – the Lemoyne Raiders. A pack of rabid dogs made up of Rebel die-hards and deserters..." He fixed Arthur with a look. "See it now?"

Arthur nodded slowly. "The Braithwaites and these Raiders... likely got an understandin'."

"Hosea and John, they tracked a shipment of shine lately. No surprise where it led – brewed by the Braithwaites, bought by the Raiders. Seems the Raiders ain't just drinkin' it neither; they're distributors. Got a big buyer down in Saint Denis..." Dutch's voice dropped, laced with a predatory interest. "...Thirty years after the war ended, and these half-evolved apes are still kickin', fueled by Braithwaite hooch. Fine fuel it is, too..."

A familiar glint of greed shone in Dutch's narrowed eyes. Arthur knew that look. It meant trouble for somebody.

"But the time ain't ripe yet," Dutch said, deliberately stubbing out his cigar. "Old Gray ain't a fool, Arthur. I reckon he knows our measure, or near enough. He just don't know why we're here. And he aims to use us – same as we look at him. But if we waltz in and offer to clean out the Braithwaites and the Raiders for him, he'll just peg us for desperate ranch hands, beggin' for honest work, livin' off his scraps, shovelin' his manure when he says shovel. No. I aim to make him beg us."

"How you figure to manage that?"

"Chaos, son," Dutch said, the word hanging heavy in the night air. "We need chaos. Pray Chaos favors us, Arthur. The primeval god, the only one worth a damn. He's the one who brings the golden opportunities."

"You aimin' to stir up a war between them two families," Arthur asked slowly, "and pick the carcass clean once they've bled each other dry?"

Chapter Text

"Naw, that play's gone outta fashion," Dutch shook his head. "Time we took up somethin' legal... or at least, less illegal."

"Meanin'?"

"Meanin' we let some other folks keep on with the downright illegal sort... No, Mr. Pearson, we ain't discussin' that again," Dutch cut him off sharply.

"I... I was just tellin' ya the stew's ready, Dutch. Noticed ya ain't touched stew in a good while..."

"Alright, alright. Obliged. I'll keep it in mind." Dutch sighed inwardly. I knew the stew was bad, but this here's torture to eat. Hell, I could whip up a passable wild carrot and beef mess myself. Once this outfit gets runnin' proper, maybe I'll fetch a real cook from Saint Denis' Chinatown... or at least send Pearson there for some trainin'...

"What was he talkin' about, Dutch?" Arthur asked as Pearson shuffled off, curious. The question snapped Dutch out of his culinary ponderin'.

"Nothin'. Old Pearson run into a few of Colm's boys. Them snakes filled his head with talk of peace between our gangs..." Dutch spat the word out like bad whiskey. "Can't see a damn thing worth discussin' with Colm O'Driscoll. Only promise I aim to keep is plantin' him six feet under inside a year. You know anything about runnin' shine, Arthur?"

"Whu... I figured you did!"

"Exactly," Dutch spread his hands theatrically. "Neither of us knows the first thing about distillin'. So how do we start a shine business? Best look to what talents we do have... Speakin' of, what's your read on them two families? After the war, the Grays, cozyin' up to the Federals, clearly got the upper hand. So why ain't they finished off the Braithwaites for good?"

He seemed to be askin' Arthur, yet talkin' to himself. "Reckon we need to get to the bottom of that."

Moonhine – like its namesake, it thrived in the shadows – wasn't exactly the Lemoyne Raiders' traditional line of work. Their leader, the man they called "The General," that brave, sly, stubborn, and sharp old Confederate officer, hadn't thought much of moonshine either. But he knew plain as day: the war was long gone, and all that "Dixie Forever" palaver wouldn't buy loyalty anymore. The new recruits only cared about the weight of their "pay." Just like every other outfit, the old ways – robbin' and kidnappin' – were gettin' riskier and paid less and less. That made findin' new ventures mighty important. Yet this promising river of cash wasn't safe. He sensed his shine runners were bein' tracked.

No doubt about it – Grays. Them turncoats, cowards, and jumped-up trash who licked Yankee boots!

But he'd gotten wind of somethin' else lately, somethin' that might pay real handsome. His boys heard tell from some dapper, oily-tongued information peddler that the bank in Rhodes had a fatal flaw. They'd bricked up a window for security, but them bricks were the weakness – the vault lay right behind 'em. That fancy dandy with the waxed mustache even produced a blueprint of the bank, markin' the spot plain as day.

"Before this news becomes common knowledge on every street corner..."

His men urged him. The information and the blueprint hadn't come cheap, but if it was true? A haul of ten thousand dollars!

The General spun his revolver, wrestlin' with it. Rhodes was Gray territory. "Redistributin' property" from their bank wouldn't sour relations with their traditional allies in these parts – the Braithwaites. And lately, that Gray law dog seemed mighty interested in puttin' a stop to his shine operation. A little warnin' wouldn't hurt none.

"Get close to someone at that bank," he decided quick. "Or find the fella who did the brickwork. Best way. Make damn sure the story holds water. Be smart about it. Don't tip 'em off, and keep your mouths shut! Don't let some other vultures get wind and beat us to it!"

The information was true – mostly true. For a seasoned confidence man like Josiah Trelawny, lyin' was his trade, so tellin' the truth now and again was even easier. The only part that might be stretchin' things was the "ten thousand dollars" figure. He'd pulled that number clean outta the air. Long as it lit a fire under the Lemoyne Raiders, he'd done what Dutch paid him for. He sure hadn't skimped on the price, though. If lies fetched a handsome fee, the truth oughta cost more. Besides, givin' his new clients too big a discount would only make 'em suspicious.

Chapter Text

When he reported the outcome of the operation to Dutch, the leader was pleased. Dutch declared the take was his to keep entirely, as his work wasn't done yet – this was seed money for what came next.

“Seem to recall you got a friend down at the Rhodes station... what’s his handle... Alden?” Dutch asked.

“Aye. A sharp fella, but a ‘discouraged’ sort,” Trelawny nodded, a mite surprised at Dutch’s knowing ways. “So he’s right keen on workin’ with us steady-like.”

“Heard he comes by... interestin’ tidings...”

“That he does, that he does. Alden’s clever, knows near everybody, asks a fair price... feeds us plenty of little tales about stagecoaches...”

“No. Not us. And not just stagecoaches.” Dutch shook his head.

“You mean...”

“Right. You explain it to Alden. We ain’t just hankerin’ after them one or two wagon jobs. We need word on bigger hauls. Trains... ones with soft bellies.”

“But them bigger jobs... they ain’t our style, Dutch. Thought you’d decided against that line.”

“You’re right. So once you get that information... you turn around and sell it. To the Lemoyne Raiders.”

“Oh, Dutch... you want me to be an information peddler? A... a second-hand one?”

“Exactly. Easier than weavin’ a whole con, ain’t it?” Dutch smiled.

“Means sittin’ in grimy saloons, hagglin’ with stinkin’ troopers... ain’t exactly elegant...”

“Once our outfit’s set firm, you’ll be the Vice President in charge of all dealings. Sippin’ champagne, palaverin’ with the high society of Saint Denis. That will be elegant work,” Dutch promised, confidence thick in his voice. “Besides, this money... it ain’t hard-earned, is it?”

Trelawny thought on it, then agreed. Dutch had the right of it, at least on that last point.

With those arrangements made, Dutch seemed to ease right off the reins. He stopped pushin’ the gang to hustle, just set a few men to fishin’ and huntin’ by turns. The Pinkerton success weren’t easily repeated. As a new outfit, they were stuck guardin’ wagons. Pay for that varied wild, and fillin’ the bellies of dozens still meant relyin’ heavy on what they could catch or shoot.

Idle hands breed worry when the coffers are lean. Empty, unfounded leisure just breeds more panic.

“Arthur, my brother. You seem kind of... worried.” Dutch greeted him one misty mornin’.

“Course I’m worried. Whole world’s changing... Even I see that now. Our time… has pretty much passed. They don’t want folks like us no more. It’s their rules or be damned with you. No more outlaws… no more killers. Now it’s us being hunted... We’re thieves… in a world that don’t want us no more. Though now... maybe... maybe there’s hope.” Arthur spoke hesitant.

Dutch was silent a spell, then started recitin’, flat and dull as some stiff-collared parson readin’ a dry hymn:

“By 1899, the age of outlaws and gunslingers was at an end. America was becoming a land of laws... Even the west had mostly been tamed. A few gangs still roamed but they were being hunted down and destroyed....” His voice was dead level, like a stuffy priest reciting a boring hymn. Arthur looked at him, surprised.

“What d’you make of talk like that, Arthur?”

“When we first lit out from Blackwater... I surely thought it. But...”

“Then let me tell you what I make of it: a pile of horseshit.”

They looked at each other and laughed, sudden and sharp.

“Doubt the President hisself’d dare say such fool talk aloud. I know it. Knew it long back. The age of the gang... that’s done. But the age of the outlaw? That ain’t.” Dutch clapped Arthur on the shoulder. “But we gotta change the game we play. Any man who won’t change... well, there’s only one end waits for him: ground to dust beneath the wheels of progress. Like Colm. Or them Lemoyne Raiders.”

Though Dutch spoke plain of his old friends and new enemies meetin’ their end, Sheriff Leigh Gray didn’t share that certainty. He couldn’t say if it was the profit from that recent batch of moonshine puttin’ a strut in the Lemoyne Raiders’ step, but their boldness sure had grown alongside that mysterious liquor. Just days back, the bank in Rhodes got held up. Weren’t a huge loss, money-wise, but the defiance of it... the insult to the Grays’ authority! That, more than the coin, was what the Gray family couldn’t stomach.

And that bank job seemed just the first call to war. The whole of Scarlett Meadows turned restless and mean. Cattle vanished. Wagons got stopped cold. Homes got ransacked... Heard tell one holdup cost a big factory owner from the Heartlands plenty. That wagon carried the payroll for his tar works crew...

Chapter Text

But peace eluded the Gray clan itself. Not long ago, Beau Gray — that simpleton boy — had up and vanished from home without a word! Run off with that Braithwaite hussy, Penelope, whatever her name was! Old Tavish Gray flew into a rage, hollerin' it was Braithwaite kidnappin'. Truth was, every Gray from the big house down to the bunkhouse knew Catherine Braithwaite hated their guts as much as they hated hers. That old witch wouldn't sacrifice her own precious honor and dignity just to slap the Grays in the face. Hell no, her fury simmered just as hot. Yet, they all had to admit that shiftless Beau Gray couldn't have cooked up such a bold move on his own. Boy was the type to starve to death if you tossed him out in the wild for two days. And the whole thing was slicker than snake oil — neither family got wind of it fast enough to throw even a pebble in the path of those shameless young fools. No, this fool elopement had help. Damn good help. Planned tighter than a drum, even down to Beau not takin' anything valuable, meanin' this mystery accomplice wasn't gettin' paid; might even be puttin' his own coin on the line. Who in hell would have the motive? They wore their brains out ponderin' it.

For Sheriff Leigh Gray, though, there was some good news blowin' in. That new security outfit — led by that Yankee who calls himself Hodge McIntosh — was provin' useful. Besides runnin' security escorts at bargain prices, they occasionally slipped him tips on moonshine stills, lettin' him pocket a tidy sum when he cracked down. This warmed the Sheriff considerable to McIntosh, and the two men grew thick as thieves. Over private drinks one evenin', the Sheriff probed, casual-like, why Hodge didn't just keep some of the seized shine for himself. That was real money walkin' away.

"You're jokin', Sheriff?" McIntosh acted like he'd heard a real knee-slapper. "Me? Your friend, the duly appointed Deputy Sheriff of Rhodes? Pocketin' confiscated contraband 'stead of turnin' it over proper-like? You're the law and taxman here. That untaxed hooch rightly belongs to you to dispose of... but..."

"But what?"

"But you're right. There is a powerful profit in it. That shine ain't just flowin' in Rhodes..." The big man leaned in, wearin' a knowing smile like the serpent whisperin' about the forbidden fruit. "The Lemoyne Raiders, and the suppliers backin' 'em... seems a shame they should profit from it, don't it?"

Leigh Gray sat back like he'd been slapped upside the head. He stared hard at his visitor, his newfound friend, tryin' to read the truth in his eyes.

"Them Lemoyne Raiders been stirrin' up a mite too much trouble lately," McIntosh continued, his smile steady. "Fine target for a new security outfit... if only we had a patron both righteous and generous enough to hire us for the job. Say... feel a chill? Mite close them doors and windows?"

... By the end of the talk, the Sheriff gripped McIntosh's hand, satisfaction brimmin'. "Course, I can't decide this alone, y'understand? Big family. Got to talk it over... Them Braithwaites, the bastards! They're gettin' too damn bold. Their shine cellars are thick as rabbit holes! And consortin' with murderin' Raiders! For men of law and order like ourselves... But, I need to speak with the family..."

"I understand, Sheriff," McIntosh nodded. "You're surely the man to lead the county's brave and loyal folk against 'em. Though the cost... might be high, without help of friends."

Dutch had been studyin' the local chessboard: the weakened Braithwaites, secretly hitched to the Lemoyne Raiders, balanced against the local power of the Grays. That standoff was why neither side could finish the other. But now, the arrival of the Van der Linde gang... that was a heavy counterweight dropped sudden-like onto the scale.

The Grays saw it too. They could send this crew of Yankees and Irish farm boys straight at the Raiders. With their strong arm gone, the Braithwaites would be easy pickin's. The Grays could hang any crime they fancied on 'em – consortin' with outlaws, bootleggin', murder... hell, even treason. Accusations to the loser stick easy. And when the smoke cleared? A hundred years of feudin' would be over. The Braithwaites' prize bloodstock, their rich bottomland, their tangled business dealings reachin' all the way to Saint Denis... all of it would fall under the Gray family's protection. Only one exception: in their whispered plans, the shine trade was promised to McIntosh. He claimed it was "all he wanted," though the Sheriff reckoned it was a mighty generous cut for outsiders.

"Not anymore," the Sheriff declared, greed boilin' hot in his veins. He was itchin' to ride out to the manor that very night and lay the plan before old Tavish Gray. "Not now we got you boys."

"The business is settled, gentlemen," Dutch announced to his men on the ride back. "Time to prepare for the assault on Shady Belle."

Chapter Text

Sure enough, the Grays didn't make them wait long before delivering their decision to cooperate. Nobody turns away free fighting men delivered right to their doorstep. Next came the planning of the operation.

The day of the attack wasn't chosen lightly. One of the most important jobs of any hunter is learnin' the habits of his quarry. Knowin' the location of the Lemoyne Raiders' main stronghold beforehand, it hadn't taken much work to figure out the outlaws' routines. Tonight was their "officers'" regular "gathering" night. Almost the whole hard core of the Lemoyne Raiders would be gathered there. This meant a successful strike could break 'em for good, but it also meant it'd be a hard fight. Even though he knew the Raiders' strength, and reckoned Arthur with maybe one or two others could likely handle it, Dutch wasn't about to take that chance, considerin' what they faced.

When musterin' the men, Dutch called out loud enough for all to hear: "All of you, 'cept the camp tenders! Get your irons! We got two shows to play tonight!" He hesitated a beat, then added, "Mr. MacGuire, you'll stay with the camp... the Company, with Mr. Duffy. Mind our property."

"Hey, Dutch!" Sean MacGuire protested loudly. "I know I disappeared for a couple of weeks..."

"I ain't cuttin' you out of all the actions, but we need hands to mind the home place! Don't you fret none, Miss Jones and Mrs. Grimshaw'll back your play if trouble comes callin'..."

A rough chorus of laughter erupted from the men.

"Your talents lean more towards Mr. Trelawny's line of work, son," Dutch said, placatin' him. "Packin' iron in the field ain't your forte, but we sorely need a silver tongue that could talk a dog off a meat wagon... And you, gentlemen!" He swung up into his saddle, raised his finely engraved pistol high, and roared at the eager men: "Move out!"

"Yee-haw!" The cowboys answered with one voice. Seven horses, spurred by their riders, kicked up a storm of dust and tossed their heads, whinnying. The thunder of hooves merged into a single, heavy rumble as the red earth trembled. It rolled out from Clemens Point like a tidal wave, sweepin' unstoppable across meadow and swamp, bearing down on the enemy hidden in the thick woods.

The "Blackwater Security Consulting Company" vanished without a trace in that moment. The Van der Linde gang that had once ridden roughshod over the West had returned!

Geographically speakin', Clemens Point was closer to Braithwaite Manor, while Caliga Hall neighbored Shady Belle. But Tavish Gray insisted the Grays handle the Braithwaites, "on account of the blood feuds, ancient and modern". Dutch chuckled inwardly. Course the old man wouldn't admit he feared these rough men might pocket the spoils they were about to reap, nor would he admit their fear of the Lemoyne Raiders.

But Dutch didn't mind. If they'd been facin' a proper army, a gathering of "officers" like this might've spelled trouble. But the Lemoyne Raiders were just a rabble playin' at bein' soldiers; their discipline wasn't a patch on these former outlaws fixin' to hit 'em hard.

As Dutch figured, the gunfire and explosions at Shady Belle didn't last long. When the quiet settled back down, the Lemoyne Raiders, as an outfit, were history. The attackers were just barely warmed up.

"Where we headed next, Dutch?" Bill asked, stuffing another pocket watch into his coat as he scanned the bodies to make sure they'd all been picked clean. He sounded downright disappointed it was over.

"Braithwaite Manor, naturally!" Dutch replied. "You boys thinkin' those lily-livered Grays can handle Braithwaite's hired guns as easy as they brag?" He held both families' fighting abilities in low regard. Without their scheming, the gang's top guns could've swept through both places clean and been gone before the smoke cleared. But lettin' the two families square off? That'd be a real test for both sides.

"Without us, they ain't got a plan that works!" Hosea added proudly. "Let's ride!"

True to Dutch's prediction, when he led his men to the manor, the Grays were bogged down in a tough fight. They still held the edge, and nobody doubted they'd win in the end, but it was gonna cost 'em more lives before they took that fortress of a house.

"Blackwater Security!" Dutch bellowed towards the fight before his horse had even stopped.

"Well now! It's them, they're here! Reinforcements!" A ragged cheer went up from the attackers at the sight of Dutch and his riders. A familiar voice called out, "That you, Mr. McIntosh? Y'all done with your business already?" That'd be Sheriff Gray – old Tavish wasn't likely to welcome their arrival, and of course, he wasn't even there.

"Quick and clean!" Dutch shouted over the crackle of gunfire. The Van der Linde shooters, riding high on their easy victory, swung down from their saddles and charged into the fray.

Chapter Text

Dutch stared silently at the burning mansion before him. The sight felt familiar, but seeing it happen now, lighting up half the night sky, was still mighty impressive.

"Don't waste your pity on them, brother," Sheriff Gray drawled, stepping up beside Dutch and offering him a cigar. "They should've met this end back during the war. This fire's thirty years overdue. We've got plenty of work ahead now, so I reckon chasin' down the rest of that moonshine ain't somethin' the law can rightly handle... You understand me." He chuckled with satisfaction. Sure, the deal was for these outsiders to take over the shine trade, but it was still illegal business. To keep it runnin' smooth, they'd need him to grease the wheels and avoid little troubles. And if this McIntosh fella had any sense, he'd see fit for the Sheriff to keep takin' a small cut – nothin' too big, but a tidy profit for hardly any effort to gain it.

"Yep, the Braithewaites left us quite a mess to clean up," Dutch said calmly, taking the cigar and clamping it between his teeth.

Takin' over the Braithewaite moonshine operation wasn't hard. While they couldn't exactly drag the Braithewaites back from hell to ask 'em where the tip of the supply chain was, findin' a still or two wasn't difficult. And that was enough.

That greenhorn over at the Sheriff's office, Archibald, knew the location of one such still. But this trip was to announce the new management, not to bust up the operation. Bein' an official type, he couldn't rightly show his face, but he pointed out the spot. Dutch reckoned that was plenty. He took Arthur and Bill and found the place, hidden deep in the swamp.

Moonshiners are a jumpy lot, but Dutch wasn't aimin' to sneak up. When the brewers spotted strangers approachin', they got their backs up quick. But they looked nervous; the big men facin' them were clearly old hands with guns.

"You oughta recognize this!" Dutch called out, knowin' Bill and Arthur had their guns trained steady behind him. He held his hands up and walked slow, closin' the distance to what he figured was about right. Then he tossed Catherine Braithewaite's brooch towards them. A low string of curses came from the shadows, and then a man stepped forward, workin' his jaw like he was chewin' on somethin'. He spat out the wad – Dutch figured it was tobacco – as he walked towards Dutch. "So," the man asked, "you the new boss 'round here?"

"That's right. And I reckon, long as the buyin' price stays the same, you boys ain't too particular about who signs the checks?"

The chewer looked over the heavily armed, unfriendly giants behind Dutch, then back at Dutch himself. He blinked. "Course not. Supply'll be steady as ever, swear it. Here." He tossed the brooch back.

Dutch caught the ridiculously ornate piece of jewelry and clapped the chewer on the shoulder. "Friends it is, then."

After the dust settled over in Scarlett Meadows, Shady Belle stood empty. That old mansion would've made a fine new headquarters for the outfit. But when Dutch put it to the vote, most figured Clemens Point was good enough. More importantly, they were startin' to build a reliable clientele and new business right here. Stayin' put was better for keepin' those connections, 'specially since they hadn't even met all their own suppliers yet, let alone figured out the full workings of their new enterprise.

"Then we stay put," Dutch declared. "We got a little coin saved now. We'll build ourselves a new place right here. Might not be as grand as Shady Belle, but it'll be home. Say, Mary-Beth! Draft a letter for Mr. Cornwall. Tell him we dealt with those sons of bitches who robbed his payroll wagons. His property's safe in these parts again. Good girl, you always had a fine hand with words... And while you're at it, tell him we've got our boot on Colm's tail. It's only a matter of time before we finish him."

"Is it, Dutch?" a voice challenged.

"We do, Mrs. Adler. Don't you fret," Dutch replied. The voice was so distinctive he didn't even need to turn his head. "Half this gang's got reason enough, and hate deep enough, to see him done. So don't doubt my aim to kill that man. I promise you..."

"Dutch! Got somethin' out here!" The shout came from Lenny, standing guard at the edge of camp, cuttin' Dutch off mid-sentence. Almost instantly, weapons were in the hands of the gang members used to handlin' trouble outside camp. Dutch, though, stayed calm. He knew if it was real trouble, Lenny would've fired a warnin' shot.

Still, Dutch gathered a few men and walked towards Lenny's position. Standin' before him was a stranger, well-dressed and refined.

Chapter Text

The outfit mostly operated by heading out to find work. With their connection to Sheriff Gray and the reputation they’d built quick enough, it weren’t hard. Seein’ as how the camp usually held folks who weren’t much for fightin’, and with the threat of them Lemoyne Raiders ever-present, they weren’t in the habit of advertisin’ their whereabouts. Visitors were scarce. But now, with the troublesome outfits nearby cleaned out, and the company not fit to lurk in the shadows forever, maybe it was time the directors learned to deal with outsiders proper-like. This harmless-lookin’ stranger seemed as good a chance as any.

“Might I ask who we’re addressin’?” Dutch asked politely, motionin’ for the men behind him to lower their barrels.

“Mr. Angelo Bronte sends his congratulations, gentlemen,” the man replied, unfazed. He seemed right used to bein’ covered by guns, handin’ over a letter with well-mannered ease.

“Who?” Hosea frowned.

“Ah, I know the gentleman,” Dutch said, takin’ the fine envelope that carried a hint of expensive cologne. He tipped his hat to the messenger. “Thank Mr. Bronte for his regards. We were just plannin’ to pay him a visit ourselves. So... you’ve already called on the Grays’ representative, I take it?”

The messenger nodded. “Mrs. Braithwaite and Mr. Bronte had some business dealings in the past, but now... truth be told, Mr. Bronte figured those operations were either destroyed in the recent trouble, or...” He paused, and Dutch could fill in the rest: or swallowed up by the Grays. Naturally, the man would call on the Grays first, figurin’ the moonshine trade belonged to them now.

“But Mr. Bronte found the supply ain’t dried up,” the messenger continued. “Just the middlemen changed, and it weren’t the Grays. Sheriff Gray, ‘course, wouldn’t admit to any connection to such business. Took us some doin’ to track you folks down... You see, Mr. Bronte’s bein’ sincere. He figures it’s only right to know his new partners.”

“Well, we’re always open to business, ‘specially with a man of Mr. Bronte’s stature,” Dutch said warmly. “Do tell him we’d be honored to call on him at his convenience.”

“Then expect Mr. Bronte’s invitation.”

“Give him our regards.”

The directors of Blackwater Security watched the man ride off, then looked at each other.

“Who in blazes is that—Bronte, was it?” someone finally asked.

“Our major investor,” Dutch said, half-jokin’. “You ever meet an Italian strong man before?”

“Not outside of a circus,” Hosea remarked.

“Well, you’re about to see one off the stage. That man’s the emperor of Saint Denis’s underworld. Even the city officials and police jump when he says frog. Bronte’s a critter hatched from a gator’s egg—rich, powerful, colder than a Montana winter, and while he’s slappin’ your back and sharin’ cigars and champagne, he’s calculatin’ where to stick the knife so you bleed out fastest. Truth is, I’d been scratchin’ my head on how to approach the man. Saves us the trouble, him comin’ to us. Makes sense, though. After the mess with the Braithwaites, a curious former partner like Mr. Bronte would naturally want answers. And it sure beats us knockin’ on his door...”

“Don’t tell me we’ve gone and riled a damned troublesome fat cat,” Hosea said, his expression turnin’ grave.

“Riled? Hell no! If we’d gone and wrecked the shine business here, maybe. But we didn’t. We kept things runnin’, kept the peace. Ain’t no more big family feuds tearin’ up the territory, are there?”

“He’s got some reach, damn him, findin’ us this quick,” Javier said, half-annoyed, half-impressed.

“A good chunk of Braithwaite hooch moved by his say-so,” Dutch pointed out. “We kept near the whole chain intact. ‘Course he could find us. Think on it, boys. Saint Denis is the capital of legal liquor in these parts. Y’all never wonder how moonshine gets sold there?”

“Fair point,” Arthur mused. “Place is crawlin’ with Catholics. Ain’t got them preachy temperance Puritans tellin’ folks they can’t drink. Easy enough to buy legal liquor there. No need for this rotgut that tastes foul and leaves a man feelin’ worse.”

“Simple as addin’ two and two, old son,” Dutch said, takin’ a pull on his cigar. “Cheapest Prairie Moon gin sells for over four dollars a bottle – stuff I could brew even in my bathtub. Rum from the leftover slop after they press sugar cane down in Guarma? Hog swill meant for poor sailors and pirates, fetchin’ five dollars a bottle in some general store. Fine brandy? Six dollars. A bottle of Kentucky bourbon? Seven dollars and fifty cents, just ‘cause it came from over the mountains! I thought WE were the thieves! Now, tell me... what’s our shine sellin’ for?”

Chapter Text

Arthur answered quickly, "Just a dollar or two. For a whole jug. Damn sight cheaper."

"Precisely," Dutch said. "The Temperance lot got a powerful grip in the countryside and small towns, growin' stronger by the day. Them sheepherders ain't findin' it easy to get legal liquor. Fact is, that's where most of our trade goes. But I'd wager, given the price, this hooch sells just fine in the Saint Denis slums too. Think on it—a shot of whiskey costs fifty cents or a dollar even in a poor man's saloon in the stews. How much could them poor devils get by breaking their backs humpin' hay bales all day?" As Dutch spoke, he thought to himself, *Your damn price system's half-baked, silly Rockstar. Wages and prices in 19th century America weren't like this. But even in this cockeyed system, not every soul can afford a seven-dollar whiskey.*

"But that's on account of the tax dodgin', so..." Hosea, who understood perfectly well, explained to the others, following Dutch's lead: "They – meanin' us now – need a big man's protection."

"That'd be our esteemed Mister Bronte," Dutch concluded with a snap of his fingers.

"Since we had a hand in finishin' the Braithwaites, this Bronte ain't likely to take kindly to us," Hosea voiced his lingering concern.

"'Men sooner forget the death of their father than the loss of their patrimony' – and that old crone was just his business partner besides," Dutch dismissed the worry. "Friends, what manner of man do you reckon Bronte is? Some kindly soul weepin' over his old pal's misfortune and fixin' for revenge? No. He's a heartless snake. So long as his coin keeps flowin', he don't give a damn whether the hooch runners are named Braithwaite or Van der Linde. Our task now is to make him see his profits in this line won't suffer none."

"And they won't," John said, for he'd been the one scoutin' the liquor trade lately. "The money's damn good, you hear? Any fool who can drive a wagon could do it. Hell, I reckon even Jack could. All you gotta do is collect the goods on time, deliver 'em where they need go. Folks meet you there to take it off your hands. More often than not, they got their own wagon – you just ride shotgun. Ain't nobody in Scarlett Meadows or the swamps near Lemoyne dares touch our wagons now. Even without the company mark, the small-timers know whose load it is. Thanks to old man Gray's shadow, plenty of little stills come beggin' for our protection. Without us movin' their liquor, they wouldn't dare sell a drop..."

"And the ones who didn't wanna take our protection... got *persuaded*." Bill added with crude laughter, drawing low chuckles from the group.

"So, we're actually shippin' more hooch into Saint Denis lately," John nodded.

"I reckon that's why he sent that sissy to 'congratulate' us, instead of siccin' the Pinkertons on us," Dutch said with a satisfied grin. "Alright then, boys. Time to ease off the reins for a spell. So long as we keep our books straight – and with Hosea and Herr Strauss here – they won't cheat us on price."

As Dutch said, the outfit started lookin' a mite like a proper business concern. They'd even wrangled a loan from the bank in Rhodes. The money was earmarked to build a timber house at Clemens Point. The three-story structure saddled 'em with thousands in debt, but Dutch swore it was worth it.

So, while Hosea led John in takin' full charge of the brew trade, the rest of the camp eased off their usual work. They turned their hands to learnin' carpentry, masonry, and buildin'. Charles proved a natural, whippin' a bunch of roughnecks into a passable crew of workers. Before long, the main company building was takin' shape.

Dutch helped Javier and Charles fix a door panel in place. He walked over to the stew pot, poured himself a cup of coffee with a satisfied air, and said to Abigail, sippin' her own brew nearby, "Not bad at all, is it?"

"Hard to believe we'll be livin' under a real roof soon. And one we didn't steal," Abigail replied with a contented smile. Everyone knew she yearned for this life most of all.

"Yep. Seems we're doin' alright for ourselves," Dutch set the pot down and took a sip. "Little Jack ain't with you? You ain't needin' to tend him? Buildin' site's a perilous place for a young'un..."

"Oh, no need to fret. He pestered Arthur into takin' him fishin' again," Abigail smiled. "Truth is, he ain't so keen on the fishin'. Just wants an excuse to take that dog, Cain, out for a run. You know how it is, never could count on John for such—"

Her words cut off sharp. Abigail suddenly collapsed backward onto the dirt with a piercing scream. Dutch stared in shock. A grisly feathered arrow stood quivering in her eye socket!

Chapter Text

The dangerous whizzing sounds passed Dutch’s ears. No time to think. He hit the dirt in a roll, scrambling behind a heavy wooden crate, his sidearm drawn almost simultaneously. Before he could get a clear look, thuds struck the crate in front of him. More feathered shafts were arcing towards his position.

"Ambush! Everyone, take cover!" Dutch bellowed. Gunfire erupted almost instantly: there were indeed enemies attacking the company!

"Miss me, old friends?" A familiar voice called from across the way. That mad, cold, self-satisfied drawl could only belong to one man. Dutch narrowed his eyes. "Micah?!"

"Didn't I tell you, Dutch, I'm a survivor?" the voice continued to shout. "A Survivor! That's all there is, living and dying, winning and losing.... I always win! You left me... Left me to die...!"

It was Micah. Dutch had no intention of wasting breath on explanations like "I had no choice." Lead was the only answer he had to give.

"Dutch van der Linde is right here!" Another familiar voice seemed to reach him. Dutch searched his memory; it had to be one of Colm's boys.

"Show 'em what O'Driscoll boys are made of!"

That confirmed it. Micah had thrown in with Colm! A cold laugh escaped Dutch. Saved a heap of trouble! But a pang of worry hit him – Arthur and John weren't here. He was missing his right and left hand.

"Women, inside! The rest of you, hold this ground!" Dutch’s heart clenched at the thought of the house – built with thousands in loans, not even properly christened – already riddled like Swiss cheese. Yet, a grim relief surfaced. Without this house, they’d be caught out in the open mud, facing Micah and the O'Driscolls head-on. Thank God! They’d built it solid, even put up rudimentary outer defenses, meant for any vengeful gang they might have crossed. Just hadn't figured they’d need ‘em quite so soon.

Micah was a dangerous enemy, but his skill didn’t speak for the whole raiding party. That conspicuous white hat of his drew plenty of fire, and the hail of bullets kept him pinned down. Though the Van der Linde gang were forced to give ground steadily at first, retreating step by step until they were pushed back into the house itself, the attackers' advance stalled right there. As the O'Driscoll thugs were picked off or fled, Micah stood alone against the tide. A final roar of rage and despair ripped from his throat as he followed the last survivors into retreat.

They surveyed the wreckage in silence. Since fleeing Blackwater, they’d taken loans from Cornwall, bargained for peace with the Pinkertons, built a company, earned some quiet money, even made friends with the local law. It seemed they were finally leaving the hail-of-lead life behind. But today was a hellish wake-up call, sneering at them: Don't count your blessings yet. It ain't over.

The preacher and the women fussed over Abigail’s wound. Silently, Dutch took the feathered shaft that had cost Abigail her eye. He tore off the scrap of cloth tied just below the fletching. Red words were scrawled across it: Vengeance is hereby mine!

Rage threatened to blow the top of Dutch’s head clean off. He hadn’t expected the gang to face the same horror just because they hadn’t moved to Shady Belle – only the victim was different. He’d never imagined that bastard Micah was still breathing!

He hadn’t taken a hit this hard since coming into this world. Deep regret washed over Dutch: Well, at least no one would doubt Micah was the rat now… Damnation, he should’ve sent someone to watch that snake crawl into hell personally.

A sudden, terrible suspicion struck him. He quickly called Charles over, handing him the arrow. "Identify this, if you can. Who might its owner be?"

"From what I know," Charles said, taking the shaft and examining it closely, "not many gangs favor the bow. This is common among Northern hunters. Nothing special." He met Dutch’s eye and added pointedly, "Not like anything the Natives use. If that’s what you were wonderin’."

Dutch let out a small breath of relief. Charles was sharp; he knew exactly why Dutch had asked him.

Their dealings with the Natives had been sparse, but Dutch remembered the distant, watchful eyes of warriors on the trail from Colter to Horseshoe Overlook. While others hadn't given it much thought, Dutch knew the terrifying possibility – if Micah had brought them down on the gang… Thankfully, that seemed unlikely now.

"And if they had chosen Native archers…" Charles gave Dutch another look, leaving the sentence hanging. The implication sent a chill down Dutch’s spine after a moment's thought. That arrow… it had been meant for him. It just missed.

Chapter Text

In the days that followed, John spoke scarcely a word. He’d often drift towards Abigail’s tent, meaning to lend a hand, but his fumbling efforts proved useless. Mostly, he just sat staring at the canvas flap from his place by the fire. Young Jack, though small, had seen John carried back scarred and broken before. He didn’t show the fretful fear one might expect. It was John himself who seemed to have learned something new. He’d often pull Jack onto his lap and hold him close, though he said nothing.

"That fool John’s finally learned to be decent to his boy. Though the price was too damn high," Dutch murmured, his expression grave as he watched father and son.

"At least she lived. Their family remains. Happiness like that… it’s rare in our line of work," Hosea sighed. "Think of Arthur."

"His boy… the one that died young… Isaac, was it?"

"Aye."

"Arthur," Dutch breathed out heavily. "His devotion to this gang… it’s like Abraham to God."

"So," Hosea asked, "what comes next? You aimin’ to collect on that promise we made to Cornwall?"

Dutch knew he spoke of sending Colm to Hell. It hadn’t seemed urgent before. But now, the O'Driscolls weren’t just fraying the edges of that uneasy truce with Cornwall; they were threatening the very bones of the outfit.

"You gonna counsel me against it?" Dutch countered, his gaze fixed on Hosea.

"Not this time," Hosea said slowly. "'Revenge is a luxury we can’t afford'… but this ain’t just revenge. It’s our business…"

"You speak true," Dutch stood up. "We ain’t road agents hidin’ behind bandanas no more. We’re guards. Protection. Bounty hunters. Colm’s bounty ain’t a penny lighter than ours, but that son of a bitch ain’t got the sense to lay low like we do. Word is, they took a good-sized farm up north in West Elizabeth, nigh on Ambarino. Prime land – rich grass, fields of lavender, herds of pronghorn. But they also got a small camp tucked away in Cumberland Forest, northwest of Firwood Rise. Colm holes up there sometimes too…"

"So that’s our next play?" Arthur asked, walking over and settling beside them.

"Not exactly," Dutch said. "Arthur, a farm like that… you could handle it alone. Sure, I hear they even got a Gatling gun there, but if we hit ‘em from the ridge behind the farm? That gun’s a damn joke. Fools didn’t even cut a proper firing port in the back of that barn… It’d be no tougher than stoppin’ a rusted flintlock. Trouble is, we can’t be sure Colm, or Micah for that matter, is holed up there."

"Colm’s been crowin’ loud lately. Reckon our… shiftin’ priorities left plenty of the old business for him," Hosea nodded. "They got men in Ambarino, West Elizabeth, New Hanover… thick as damn jackrabbits! Means Colm’s got holes to crawl into aplenty."

"Another problem is we’re still short-handed," Dutch mused. "Too few guns we can put in the field. Send those guns off to kick Colm’s tail, and the outfit’s left bare. That’d invite a defeat worse than the last… No, recruitin’ comes later." He snapped down his cigar. "But that O'Driscoll camp in Cumberland Forest – Six Point Cabin – that place will be wiped off the map. Now that we mean to live in the open some, revenge ain’t just a feelin’. It’s a tool. Show the fangs proper, or you invite more trouble! No, Arthur, not for you this time. Six Point’s guarded looser than the doves’ corsets down in Valentine. Bill, John, and any spare hand could handle it… Ah, John’s got heavier duties, tendin’ the wounded… Bill, Javier, and Lenny’ll do it. You got more important work. Tomorrow, you and Charles ride out with me. Headin’ north."

"Wonderful! Finally had your fill of that southern sweat-bath, Dutch? Yearnin’ for a blizzard to freeze your stones off again?"

"Shut your trap. We ain’t headin’ for the Grizzlies. Destination’s Cotorra Springs. Gotta thank Micah, in a way. His little archery display reminded me. I’d near forgot… there’s folks up that way worth knowin’."

"Didn’t know you had kin that far out…"

"Charles’s kin, not mine. Ask him. He’ll tell you plain enough."

Chapter Text

“But I’m afraid you’ll have to postpone that trip, Dutch.” Arthur produced an envelope, the real reason he’d sought Dutch out. “Seems you’re a hot commodity now. Might need to hire yourself a secretary just to manage your schedule… Take a look. That fella Bronte? His messenger brought this. A proper invitation this time.”

Dutch and Hosea exchanged a glance. Dutch took the letter, scanned it, and a mocking grin spread across his face.

“Well now, well now,” he drawled. “Seems the gracious Mr. Bronte is invitin’ us to a shindig. Right in the Mayor’s own garden, no less. Ha! Us. Simple country folk like us, hobnobbin' at the Mayor’s fancy garden party!”

“We goin’ then?” Arthur asked, clearly having already read the fancy card.

“Why the hell not?” Dutch struck a match and lit a fresh cigar. “You still worryin’ about that few thousand dollar bounty?”

“Ain’t the bounty bothers me,” Hosea said, hesitation plain in his voice. “It’s just… we’ve finally found a measure of peace here, Dutch. We got ourselves a house even…”

“I know what’s eatin’ at you,” Dutch cut in, puffing smoke. “You figure I’ll ride in like Jugurtha walkin’ straight into Sulla’s trap, lettin’ myself get cornered on their ground. Well, ease your minds. Old Dutch ain’t no threatenin’ foreign king worth Mr. Bronte causin’ a big ruckus at the Mayor’s own party. Scandalizin’ all them fine society folks? Tsk, tsk.” He eyed Hosea and Arthur, adding with heavy sarcasm, “Oh, fret not. Mr. Bronte’s *a man of honor*. A pillar of the community. Wouldn’t dirty his lily-white hands dealin’ directly with them grubby little moonshine stills – so tell me, boys, who else in Lemoyne is he gonna turn to ‘cept us?”

“I’m ridin’ with you,” Arthur stated, his hand slapping the worn leather of his holster.

“‘Course you are,” Dutch agreed. “Both of you. They’ll have the finest champagne south of the Mason-Dixon! Wouldn’t want you missin’ out on that. Though them Peacemakers of yours ain’t likely to see much use. Best stow ‘em. Doubt the Mayor’d take kindly to us bringin our loud-talkin friends into his garden. Leastways, not out in the open.” He clapped Arthur on the shoulder. “Right then, Cinderella, best get ready for the ball. Got a few days yet. Need to find you and Bill some proper dress suits. Off-the-rack won’t do. Figurin’ on draggin’ a tailor all the way from Saint Denis to measure you proper…”

Though stiff and unnatural in their finery, Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, and Bill rode the wagon to the party in high spirits. Such chances were rare, but Dutch assured them they’d become more frequent soon enough.

They needed no footman’s announcement to spot Mr. Bronte. After all, who else could hold court from the most prominent balcony box at the Mayor’s soirée, sprawled on a casual cane lounge, barking orders in heavily accented English?

“Ah, so you must be Mr. McIntosh,” Bronte declared, rising with an effusive air as they ascended the stairs.

Bronte’s pleasantries and pointed introductions were largely unnecessary – at least for Dutch. The bustling man with the self-important beard was obviously Mayor Henry Lemieux. The fellow surrounded by giggling women, making them swoon with laughter? Alberto Fussar. Dutch would know that sugar baron from Guarma in any grave. The three figures radiating weariness and discomfort from the shadowy corner? Rains Fall, Eagle Flies, and the ever-present Professor, Evelyn Miller, no doubt about it. And the flash of a monocle in the far corner, a tall, thin figure executing a ridiculously deep bow before some society ladies? Dutch didn’t need to see the face to know Algernon Wasp.

These faces were already etched in his mind. Arthur and Bill paid little heed to the names and titles of the gentry, Bill especially. The big man seemed locked in a constant struggle with his suit – a proper, tailor-made affair Dutch had insisted the whole gang leadership acquire (“As heads of a company, gentlemen, you must learn to present yourselves respectably!” Dutch had urged). Only Hosea moved with his usual quiet alertness, sharp eyes taking in every detail.

“So, Mr. van der Linde… ah, pardon, Mr. McIntosh,” Bronte corrected himself with a frosty smile. “You are prepared, then, to take over the late Mrs. Braithwaite’s… distilling enterprises in this region? Or perhaps you have not yet made the acquaintance of the relevant parties in Saint Denis?”

“We’re new in these parts,” Dutch replied smoothly, pretending not to notice Bronte’s slip with his alias. “Felt only right our first call should be on the true power hereabouts.” Dutch delivered it with unwavering confidence, though it sounded like pure flattery to Arthur’s ears.

“My blessings upon you,” Bronte said, raising his glass. His voice took on a harder edge. “Though making money in this filthy place is no simple task. All these vulgar people… they hate me. But they will obey!” He suddenly shouted something in rapid Italian towards the garden below. Dutch didn’t understand the words, but he knew the meaning well enough: "I look forward to watching you die!"

Chapter Text

Even for Dutch of this prophetic version, socializin' with Bronte wasn't exactly a pleasant experience. But as he walked down from the balcony, Dutch felt a measure of satisfaction. This time, at least, Bronte hadn't demanded they gun down some troublesome bookworm or spun them a tall tale about easy cash at the trolley station. Bronte had taken them for the clean hands and semi-official messengers of the Gray family. It hadn't made him any more polite, but it had held back that ever-simmerin' well of malice and venom he usually poured over Dutch and his crew.

Dutch wrestled down the powerful urge to hunt down Fussar right then and turn his head into tomato paste. Instead, he called out to Arthur, "You, come with me first. Our copper-skinned friends happen to be here. Let's have a word with 'em."

"You mean those Indians?" Arthur replied. "While you were singin' Mr. Bronte's praises so enthusiastically, I noticed they slipped out."

"No matter," Dutch waved it off. "We'll get our chance. See here? At least Mr. Evelyn Miller is still present. I'm a devoted reader of his. I reckon he's got a decent rapport with the natives. Oh, and Arthur? Keep an eye on that bothersome feller Pierre. I caught somethin' he muttered about Cornwall. Play it by ear. You know what to do."

Aside from Bill grumblin' under his breath that the whole affair had been pure torment, the other three seemed to have little complaint. No longer needin' to skulk about, the well-trained footman naturally had a company coach waitin' to whisk them straight back.

"How was the Mayor's whiskey?" John greeted the men filing out of the coach. "Better'n that Blackwater bootleg rotgut, I'd wager."

"Well, well," Arthur said, a mite sharp. "Would you look at that – Dutch actually remembered his manners. What brought that on? Did he suddenly learn the proper respect owed to a fine gentleman like Mr. Bronte? I'm mighty curious what's next. Dancing lessons? Etiquette classes?"

"See now, Arthur," Dutch said, unruffled, his tone almost kindly, "manners cost you nothin'. And since you're already wearin' the fancy duds, learnin' a bit of etiquette wouldn't hurt none..."

"Didn't see you extendin' the same courtesy to Milton."

"Ah, that's a different kettle of fish," Dutch admitted. "I despise old Milton, true enough. But I got to admit, he ain't exactly a bad man. All told, he's got grit, ain't overly fussy about the letter, yet still respects the law. Different breed entirely from a snake like Cornwall, who treats the law like his own personal playthings. Though, in that regard, I reckon we're closer to Cornwall – neither of us sets much store by the law."

"Is that how you see the Mayor, too?" Arthur pressed.

"No," Dutch shook his head. "The Mayor's the opposite – hard to call him a good man. 'Cause I can see plain as day, he's a first-rate politician." He gave a dry chuckle. "Good men don't make top-notch politicians, do they? We deal with sharp operators, and he's no exception. I'd wager he knows our pedigree clear as Bronte does, that viper. And he likely managed it without needin' the Pinkertons or their like."

"Then we ain't exactly leavin' a good impression over there," John said, his expression darkening.

"No, it ain't like that," Hosea cut in, clearly having pondered this. "The way he carries on so cozy with Bronte... suggests he might cultivate the same sort of... friendship... with us."

Dutch barked a laugh of genuine appreciation. "That kindly soul is our model, alright! 'Cept the businesses he controls in this city are just a tad numerous..."

"Yep," Hosea said, his voice tight. "Includin' the police, Dutch." Years alongside Dutch honed Hosea's instincts sharp. He heard the real meaning plain as day: Dutch was thinkin' of puttin' Bronte down and takin' his place. Hosea didn't like the smell of it. They'd finally survived by layin' low, and things were lookin' up. Stirrin' this pot meant plungin' the gang – well, the company – right back into the whirlwind. It was dangerous.

"Two points here," Dutch held up two fingers. "First: Bronte ain't the only feller who can make friends with the law. Second: If we ain't plannin' on crossin' Bronte, then whether the police are his men or not... what difference does it really make?"

Hosea looked confused. "So you're sayin'... you actually aim to work for Bronte?"

"You joshin' me?" Dutch scoffed. "Bronte's got to go. But not yet. Right now, we got lessons to learn from him. Like... how to get friendly with the Mayor and the local constabulary..."

"If we can funnel some profit Bronte's way – even just for now – couldn't we use his pull to move the bootleg, same as we're doin'?" Hosea reasoned. "That's not enough? Wooin' the high and mighty costs a powerful lot of coin..."

Chapter Text

Dutch shook his head. "Selling cheap rotgut ain't no future, see? We only scrape pennies off the poor sods who can't kick the habit. No. We need the good stuff. We gotta be able to peddle genuine Cognac, Bordeaux wine, and Scotch whisky. That's how we rope in the best saloons in Saint Denis and the real highfalutin folks. Then we become top-shelf merchants, gentlemen of class. The customers'll come swarmin' then, mark my words. And customers with deep pockets."

"Sounds... well, it sounds awful legal," Arthur said. "Awful legal" sounded odd, but they all knew what he meant: the Van der Linde gang wasn't exactly cut out for strictly legal enterprises, especially the kind that involved stock certificates and interest rates instead of drawn iron.

"It won't stay legal. Besides, you're drawin' the lines of 'legal' a mite too tight, old son." Dutch straightened his thoughts, slowly unfurling his grander scheme. "While our ultimate prize is the high-class folk who turn their noses up at anything less than the finest, there's a wide swath in between them and the gutter rats buying hooch from a back alley – the self-important so-called middle class." A familiar, mocking smile touched his lips. "They reckon they deserve the same indulgences as their bosses, but their purse strings are too tight to pay the price. Their money is easiest pickings. Now, gettin' genuine shipments straight from Canada or Scotland in bulk? Tricky. But high-proof medicinal alcohol? Easy as pie. And with alcohol, fresh-mixed whisky, and a dab of caramel coloring, one bottle of Scotch or Canadian becomes three, four bottles. Difference in quality? Hardly noticeable to most palates. What we end up with is still damn fine liquor." He wagged a finger. "And the price don't carry none of them ruinous taxes. Now, to hold this liquor conjured up by magic, we need bottles and labels that pass muster. That means glassworks and a printing press. And once our operation swells big enough? Warehouses. Professional haulage teams. Which might just mean dabblin' in real estate and transport..."

Dutch's plan spun out wider and grander, until he noticed Arthur, Hosea, and John staring at him in silence. He chuckled, a touch awkwardly. "Alright, alright. Am I soundin' like the old Dutch again? The one always sayin' 'I have a plan'? All that... that's for later. After we deal with Bronte. But naturally, we can't ride that trail just yet. For now..." He leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "We need to talk manpower."

"Open recruitment?" Arthur asked.

"What? You keen on sharin' camp with fellers whose only virtue is bulk? Men who likely don't even know how to flip the safety on a repeater?" Dutch shook his head firmly. "Listen. We've settled our accounts in these parts. Pinkertons, Cornwall, the Grays, Bronte... none trouble us now. Our outlets grow more promising by the day. But Colm... Micah... Lord above, we do need more guns. Though I reckon, after we bloodied their nose at their ambush and taught 'em a lesson at Six Point Cabin, Colm'll lay low a spell. Gives us time to scout talent."

Dutch, unlike some other company directors one might imagine needing lessons from a Trelawny on comportment, seemed to possess a natural knack for it. He could craft the image of a compelling gentleman, though truth be told, he held little regard for the massive rings adorning his fingers – rings large enough to choke a Shire horse. It was surface, of course. Underneath, he remained the boss of an outlaw outfit. Just not the kind who sat behind a desk barking orders. Strapped to his hip, whether business called for it or not, remained his cherished Schofield revolver. In Dutch van der Linde's understanding – past, present, and foreseeable future – it was pure folly to ride into any venture skirting the law unarmed, or unwilling to use iron. Hauling contraband liquor – hell, even much legal liquor transport, or any large-scale movement of valuables – was rarely safe. Especially when he'd added the sideline of robbing his newfound competitors. The raids served double duty: they supplied the goods for his thirsty clients, and they dealt a heavy blow to the opposition. Best part? The victims seldom dared cry to the law. Especially now, with friends old and new – like Sheriff Gray – looking the other way. Even if they did complain, they wouldn't get the satisfaction they craved. Everyone knew this kind of business usually meant gunplay, blood spilled, and often, men planted in the ground. But for the former wagon boss of the Van der Linde gang, the men planted were always the poor bastards on the other side. Compared to haggling with saloon buyers in Saint Denis, this was the dance they knew best.

(To be continued...)

Chapter Text

Arranging such work was indeed one of Dutch’s calculated decisions. The core members of Blackwater Company, much like himself, hailed from a violent world steeped in robbery, assault, theft, and other crimes. Though Dutch had tried to establish rules since forming the company, there weren't enough jobs to keep every man busy every day. Left idle, these cowboys were prone to slipping back into old ways. Some used their free time to return to their former trades, seeking out poorly guarded money or goods to rob, swindle, or steal. Dutch had to constantly impress upon these boys that there were plenty of ways to earn without risking their necks just because they had a few days or weeks with nothing official to do. But his words often fell on deaf ears. Some boys had a powerful hankering for gambling and whoring, always needing more cash. And those reckless fools were the ones who got caught regular, forcing Dutch to scrape up for lawyers, bail money, and other expenses.
“Whatever you boys get up to, I’ll do my damnedest to back your play. That’s how it’s always been. But you gotta listen to old Dutch! I’m just tryin’ to teach you the price of foolishness!” Dutch told Bill, hauling him out of jail yet again. “Remember, we might call ourselves a company now, but the Van der Linde gang’s code still stands. If I gotta ride into town myself to pay your goddamn bail again…”
The deadly intent flickering in Dutch’s narrowed eyes chilled Bill to the bone. He stammered out promises he’d stay out of trouble henceforth.
Dutch watched Bill shuffle off, rubbing his head, and sighed, a tangle of emotions in his chest. He turned and found John standing behind him, looking like he’d been waiting a spell.
“Dutch, I… reckon I could do somethin’ else?”
“What’s troublin’ you?” Dutch turned to face him.
“I… well, you know… Abigail… she… she needs lookin’ after…”
Dutch sighed. “She don’t want you runnin’ the outside jobs no more, does she?”
John didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
“And she’d fight like a hen gone mad to keep Jack from learnin’ any of them dangerous skills, I’d wager? Willin’ to pay any price to shield her chicks from what she reckons is danger.” Dutch wasn’t looking at John, but the younger man could hear the plain disapproval in his tone. “But John, what kinda world you figure we’re livin’ in? Some blessed land above the clouds? Jack had the misfortune of bein’ born into this goddamn outfit of ours. ‘Course Abigail don’t want him endin’ like so many of us, rottin’ in some godforsaken field for the coyotes and ravens to pick clean. Y’all want for him the life we lost – to be a doctor, a lawyer, a proper, respectable man. So she don’t want Jack turnin’ into a fool who only knows how to wave a gun and holler – like us. Believe me, I don’t want that neither. But in this world, without the iron and lead to back you up, a man can’t even draw a peaceful breath.”
Dutch stepped closer to John, fixing him with a stare. “There’s a world of difference between holdin’ the iron with knowin’ when to use it, and just throwin’ the damn thing away. I’d advise you talk sense to Abigail… though ‘course, you’re a family man now. You oughta ease off the outside work. Means you gotta learn other trades from Hosea, Charles, even Mr. Strauss. You know damn well you got a boy to feed. Tell you what. Start by doin’ somethin’ important for me. Ride into Saint Denis. Take this five thousand dollars to Sheriff Lambert. This ain’t like before, handin’ cash to some low-down copper or a politician’s flunky at a drop point. This is our first touch with real power in Saint Denis. Took considerable doin’…”
“Dutch… I… you know me. Just ride in like that?”
“Hell no! Hosea’s goin’ with you. And you’ll wear repairman’s duds. Folks won’t look twice at a workin’ stiff.”
“But… it means walkin’ straight into the police station downtown, right into the sheriff’s office! With all them lawmen lookin’ on! How in blazes am I supposed to hand over five thousand dollars in cash?”
“You damn fool, just give it to him!” Dutch stared at John like he’d lost his senses. “You been runnin’ so much shine that you forgot how to steal? It’s just movin’ money in the other direction… Stuff it in a brown paper sack! Like it’s your lunch. A steak sandwich, or some such… You’ll be goin’ back regular, so you can fix a window frame in his office now and then. Makes it look right to folks watchin’. I shouldn’t have to spell it out like you’re green. Hosea’ll tell you. Now get goin’!”

Chapter Text

Having finally untangled the knot of troubles facing the company, Dutch set out at last on the journey he'd planned for so long. He roused Arthur and Charles, and they rode north into the southern dawn.

Their destination was a place called Wapiti. Once, it had been nothing but bleak, barren hills – land so cursed and forsaken it seemed touched by the mark of Cain himself. Now it was an Indian reservation, a pitiful cave where remnants of natives huddled, driven out from their own Eden.

"Mind tellin' me somethin' about where we're headed?" Arthur asked Charles as they rode the long trail from Lemoyne to Wapiti. "It's a fair piece."

"Nothin' much to tell. Reservation... you know the story. Indians punished for crimes that weren't crimes, driven off their land. Then driven off again, punished again... Place has no buffalo. Nothin' they need. Far as I know, they're made up of the last scraps of several tribes. None had many left."

"Kinda sounds like us, few months back."

"They got bigger troubles now," Charles said. "They had peace treaties signed. But those got broke. Now they're facin' bein' driven out again."

"How come?"

"Oil. Couple months back, surveyors went into their territory. Sent reports to Cornwall and the state government. Said there's oceans of the stuff under that land..."

"So you aimin' to step into this, Dutch?" Arthur turned, asking. "But this ain't some train or load of shine... This'll bring the whole state government down on us. No offense, Charles." He gave a small wave towards Charles, who shook his head slightly.

"Well, Arthur, what do you say?"

"I feel right sorry for their plight, but... we got our own troubles. Our own business to mind," Arthur continued.

"This is our business, Arthur," Dutch said. "We need allies. Trust me, these are about the only reliable ones we're liable to find— Well now, here we are. Look upon this land of promise, Arthur. Tell me what you see."

Arthur surveyed the small place teeming with people. Countless souls gasped for breath in hive-like tents. Unlike a hive, though, these flimsy shelters had small holes cut for windows, peering out. When folks lingered near those holes, Arthur saw clothes threadbare and scant, barely enough for decency. Now and then, a child dashed past, seeking fresh air and fun, though the only air to be had was thick and stinging with the smell of sulfur.

"I see the tender mercies of our good friend Mr. Cornwall," Arthur said flatly. "Can't abide these poor folk sufferin' so, he aims to drive 'em out. Won't even let 'em live like this."

Dutch ignored the edge in his tone. "These Indian braves... they're good men. Brave men. We can't let the Army bastards push 'em around without end." Dutch stared at the encampment, speaking as much to himself as to his men. "Standin' 'em up against the Army head-on ain't practical. But we can find 'em other work. Get 'em outta this hell."

Wapiti was large, but the livable ground scarce. Dutch didn't have to search hard to find the leader of this dying band – Chief Rains Fall – and his son, Eagle Flies.

"Charles! My brother, it is good to see you..." Arthur saw genuine warmth in Eagle Flies' greeting for Charles. But when his eyes fell on the men behind, that warmth vanished like smoke.

"What do you want here, white men?" Eagle Flies asked, his voice thick with hate and poison. Dutch noted his hand resting on the knife at his belt, knuckles white on the hilt. He didn't doubt for a second that this wary warrior would cut them to meat paste without blinking if they showed threat. And he looked plenty capable of doing it.

"Come to make friends," Dutch said, slowly raising his hands. Arthur observed Dutch's holster hanging empty at his hip – he'd left his engraved revolver, the one he usually slept with under his pillow, in his saddlebag. A rare move.

"We have seen too many white men come saying they want friendship," Eagle Flies retorted, his grip still tight on the knife.

"Then I'll have to give you my other reason: Come to save you, too."

"We have seen too many—"

"Let him speak, my son." Chief Rains Fall finally spoke, his voice cutting through his son's hostility with a quiet, courteous yet undeniable dignity. "I believe... we have seen you. When your wagons were crossing the river by Cumberland Falls. And again at the feast... you were upstairs. What should we call you, this gentleman who comes seeking friendship?"

Chapter Text

"You truly have the eyes of an eagle, Chief. I go by many names, but before you, I'll use my true one. Call me Dutch van der Linde. This here is Arthur Morgan."
Arthur caught the note of respect in Dutch's voice – different from the careful, trouble-avoiding tone used with Bronte. This was genuine regard. For the ever-proud Dutch, that was uncommon.
"We were outlaws, once active out west. There are bounties on me and my friends in two states. The government dislikes me no less than they do you. Not long ago, like you, we were near our end here too. But we survived, by luck or grace. I tell you this to show we ain't like those heartless devils who drove you to this pass."
"So I ask," Rains Fall inquired, "you come all this way, find our struggling tribe deep in these mountains... how do you propose to save us?"
"We know your people suffer," Dutch stated. "As you see, Charles here is my friend. I reckon we can both agree Charles is a brother to be trusted, yes?" He knew even Eagle Flies couldn't deny that truth, and pressed on without waiting for an answer. "Charles and I believe cooperation between us could be mutually beneficial. That's the only reason I'm here."
"Beneficial... how?" Rains Fall's tone was level, giving no hint of his interest.
"Survival," Dutch said simply.
"Cornwall uses the state government and the U.S. Army," Charles stated gravely. "Victory in your fight ahead looks hard. I speak of the oil. That scout report."
"You still haven't answered what it is you aim to do," Eagle Flies persisted, ignoring Charles and fixing Dutch with his gaze.
"I need to know one thing first: To see your people survive... is there anything you wouldn't do?" Dutch sensed Eagle Flies' hostility might be softening. He stepped towards the campfire and sat down, mimicking Rains Fall's posture.
"Of course. I would give my life."
"God damn, son, what would I do with your life? And that's too easy. What I'd ask of you... that's a sight harder."
"What are you saying?" Eagle Flies' gaze sharpened, weighing if this was an insult.
"You're proud. That's why I admire you, why I want to help. But reckless pride will damn you, and your people with you." Dutch met his piercing gaze without flinching. "Surviving is hard. But not impossible. Your people... how are you different from the Irish, the Italians, the Jews, or dark-skinned folks like Lenny? We're all the same. Robbed of freedom, robbed of fair work. But look – them Italians do alright, and half can't speak the local tongue proper. Least Captain Monroe taught you English."
"Speak plainer," Eagle Flies frowned, the blunt man unused to circling words.
"The cities, brother! The cities! Those soulless curs slaughter your buffalo outside the cities, steal your land, spit on your spirits... and you can't beat them out here on the open plain. If we fight, we fight where we can win."
Eagle Flies' brow furrowed deeper: The Wapiti, driven even from these mountains, and this stranger told them to go to the cities?
"You ain't got some fear of those bastards' laws, do ya? Reckon not."
"None. Not a shred. But what would we do in the cities?"
"Make money. Enough money to survive."
"Dollars cannot buy the friendship of the Indians," Rains Fall interjected, his calm unchanged.
"But dollars can buy survival," Dutch countered. "Hell, enough dollars can even buy victory over the bastards who took everything. If you have enough."
"So you don't even know," Eagle Flies said slowly, "that we are forbidden to leave the reservation?"
"Set your mind at ease, friend. You know... me and my boys, we got recognized in Saint Denis once. Charged with murder, even. Charges got dropped. Witnesses... well, they either mysteriously disappeared or lost the will to testify." Dutch leaned forward, the firelight catching his eyes. "This is America. For men of talent... Americans are easily persuaded. Truth is, long as there's profit and no trouble, who gives a damn if a few Indians are loose, instead of penned up like cattle on some reservation by their bullshit laws?"
"And this way of making money you speak of...?"

Chapter Text

"It's gambling and lotteries, son. You know? Americans didn't used to say 'I betcha' every day, but times are different. From the slicked-up bigwigs on fancy steamboats to the ragged night watchman with a limp, there ain't a soul who doesn't dabble in this amusement. Even the beggars on the street corner will shake dice with their own kind while resting in the sun. I want you to understand one thing: the little man who can't scrape together two dollars for the ponies still likes a wager. What about him? If he can only spare a few cents, ain't he got a right to that pleasure too? If the liquor business taught us former road agents one precious lesson, it's this: there's some outlawed activities the public don't just tolerate, they downright encourage. Course, that requires a small condition: dealing with the law or some other government man. And the dollar bill, well, it's the perfect grease for them wheels. Fact is, we keep a special section in the tithe box just for our 'friendship commissions'... pays off the coppers and small-time politicians down in the gambling district. Naturally, that's our concern. All you need to provide is the manpower."

Eagle Flies seemed to be holding back with great effort, but he let the man finish. "This is what you white men do," he spat, disgust thick in his voice. "Poison our souls with your sins..."

"But in this plan, you will be the saloon owner. The partner. Not the sucker at the table," Dutch shook his head. "The gamblers? They'll be the very white men you despise. Ain't that so? It's a mighty profitable business."

"If this venture is so tempting, why don't you run it yourself?"

"My business is liquor, my friend. You see, we're lean. Not enough hands to spare men for a saloon. So I can't meddle in your future gambling affairs; and you folks won't need to ride with my outfit, holding up whiskey wagons. Naturally, I'll take a share of the profits – partners at the top, see? You can always seek my counsel, and I'll never make your decisions for you in your own affairs. My aim is simply to see our mutual enterprise profit to the fullest. I will always be the leader of my small band, but with you? We stand as equal allies."

Eagle Flies seemed stymied. He didn't trust Dutch's promises, but couldn't find the words to refute the plan just yet. Before he could speak, his wise old father answered Dutch. "Mr. Van der Linde. Before this future business... we have a more pressing trouble. Charles must have told you. They mean to drive us out. Again."

"If they do that, they break the peace treaty signed three years back clear as day. It would mean war," Eagle Flies stated firmly.

"No, my son. There will be no war. We cannot endure another. They have grown strong... and we are not their match, Mr. Van der Linde. We all know it's because of the oil. But we need proof. Months ago, their men surely entered our lands..."

"So... you want us to steal this report?"

"Plainly, we cannot do it ourselves," Rains Fall said, his voice low and heavy. "It may sound foolish, but we are truly at the end of our road..."

"No. I cannot do it either." Dutch refused point-blank, so quickly that Arthur suspected he'd prepared the answer before even arriving.

"I cannot move directly against Cornwall or the state authorities in this manner. Your view, sir, I share entirely. We cannot endure war. But stealing a document, surely guarded close, from Cornwall's factory offices? That risks conflict. It serves neither of us well."

"Even if the reward were... substantial?"

"It ain't about the reward, Chief. I didn't come here for that kind of payment," Dutch shook his head. "But I do have a plan to address this trouble. And in a way... it's kin to the gambling plan I just spoke of..."

But Rains Fall had lost interest in Dutch's next words. His expression had darkened. "Forgive me, Mr. Van der Linde. I do not doubt your goodwill. But our past dealings with white men... they force caution upon us..."

"I understand," Dutch nodded. "But I still ask you to hear my proposal... And you surely know this: losing one report won't stop their push, will it? They'll just dream up new excuses to try and drive you off..."  

Chapter Text

“Our people, though living on the same reservation, come from many different tribes. We must deliberate together,” Rains Fall offered a reason that could not be refused. “But we appreciate your kindness. With Charles here, I trust he will not make any decision that might harm friends.”

Dutch understood what was implied: though I may trust Charles, I cannot yet fully trust you—especially when my request has just been denied.

“This certainly requires careful consideration,” Dutch rose to his feet. “We will visit again, or await your visit. Charles must have told you how to find us when needed.”

Since leaving the mountains, this seemed to be the first time Dutch had not achieved the expected outcome from a carefully planned visit. But in Arthur’s eyes, Dutch did not appear disappointed.

“Your plan didn’t seem too successful this time,” Arthur pointed out to Dutch on their way back.

“Unsuccessful? What do you think, Charles?”

“Natives aren’t easily moved by empty promises. They’ve had too many lessons,” Charles said bluntly. “After all, papers signed by government officials haven’t proved to be worth more than a pile of rotten firewood, let alone a proposal like ours with no foundation… But I agree that breaking into Cornwall’s office isn’t a good idea either.” He paused. “As you said, Dutch, it’s dangerous, and more importantly, it wouldn’t be useful.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Dutch agreed. “But I believe we’ve left them with the impression that we’re willing to cooperate. At least that’s something. By the way, Arthur, let me guess—has our honorable Mayor Lemieux already contacted you to do some favors for him?”

“Is there anything you don’t know, Dutch?” By now, Arthur was no longer surprised by Dutch’s omniscience. “Yes, a few small things.”

“Ah, I know more than that. I also know about you and Mary… Alright, don’t look at me like that. Let’s get back to the mayor. Keep helping him, but if he shows hostility toward his secretary—what’s his name, Jean-Marc ?—be careful.” Dutch pondered. “If you have to choose sides, help Jean-Marc, and don’t break contact with him. Understood?”

“If you say so,” Arthur replied with his usual obedience to Dutch’s orders. “I’ll protect him when he needs it.”

“Charles, you stay here,” Dutch said, taking hold of his horse. “They need you more than the gang does. More importantly, they trust you. I bet they’ll run into more trouble soon. Help them here, and if needed, ride back to inform us as fast as you can.”

“No problem,” Charles never minced words. He tugged the reins and turned back toward the cluster of tents.

“You come back with me, Arthur. Mr. Jean-Marc still needs your help.”

“Dutch! Arthur! Thank God, you’re back just in time!” Javier, standing guard at the entrance, shouted as he saw two horses cutting through the morning mist and galloping toward the camp.

“What’s happened this time?” Dutch had barely finished speaking when a loud BANG of a gunshot echoed from inside the camp. He immediately dismounted and drew his pistol.

“How dare she…” Javier also crouched low, glancing back toward the camp.

“She…?” Dutch roughly guessed the situation and called out loudly, “Mrs. Adler, is that you?”

“It’s Dutch! Dutch is back!”

“What was that gunshot?”

“Dutch!” A woman rushed out of the camp. Like a crazed panther, she lunged toward Dutch, not even bothering to holster her gun. “I found him…! Colm O’Driscoll! With Micah… They’re at Hanging Dog Ranch! I know they’re there right now!”

Who else could it be but Sadie Adler? The joy and fervor of vengeance had consumed her entirely. Dutch had no doubt that if he didn’t approve the operation, she would go through with it alone.

“If the information is reliable, gentlemen, what are we waiting for?”

“We just thought we should wait for your opinion, Dutch,” Lenny peeked out from the other side. “After all, it’s Colm’s stronghold—not an easy place to clean out. You said yourself that as a gang, we should have a procedure for approving major operations…”

“Why hesitate to kill Colm?” Dutch swiftly mounted his horse. “If we’re late, he might escape again! Arthur, Bill, Javier, and of course—Mrs. Adler! Oh, and John, how could you pass up the chance to avenge Abigail? Let’s move out!”

The posse rode through swamps, plains, and mountains, heading toward Little Creek River. Dutch gazed wistfully at the lavender in the distance: he knew this area well, but since he began trying to rewrite this story, he hadn’t returned to this old haunt where he used to go to clear his mind when he was upset.

“I probably have a hundred ways to turn this place upside down like a cat playing with a mouse,” Dutch chuckled. “But we’d better be cautious. For this operation, victory means taking them all out without a scratch! So now, Arthur, take your long-range weapon! With us here, you don’t need to do anything else—keep your eyes on that damn stable. If any bastard tries to get near that machine gun, take him out! John, watch over Mrs. Adler. Don’t let her charge too far ahead… Bill, Javier! With me!” 

(To be continued...)