Don De Don Doon

Perhaps Hosea was the sole soul in that room who found joy not in the glittering piles of cash, but in the vibrant, incandescent future unfurling for the Van der Linde Gang.

He was old, weary of the chase, and the clinking of coins held little allure. His guiding star had always been Dutch's audacious, beautiful dream: Tahiti, the sun-drenched shores, the endless mangoes.

He had believed, truly, profoundly, that he, Dutch, Arthur, John, all of them, would one day retire, a glorious exodus to that carefree paradise. He'd even repeatedly warned the gang members, practically pleaded with them, to obey Dutch's every command, to never, ever derail the sacred plan for Tahiti and its mythical mango groves.

He'd envisioned death, betrayal, countless insurmountable obstacles, but never, never had he imagined that before a single major obstacle even presented itself, Dutch's grand, ever-shifting plan would simply… succeed. He stood there, a wide, beatific grin splitting his weathered face, gazing at the sixty thousand dollars.

"Oh, Arthur, it's almost impossible to believe," John stammered, his eyes wide as saucers, glued to the mountain of bills. "We've actually… started a business!"

"Yeah!" Arthur nodded, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. He clapped John on the shoulder, his heart swelling with an emotion so profound it bordered on pain. "We succeeded, John. I think little Jack can finally go to school." Arthur was utterly, completely convinced. Convinced by Dutch! He'd always respected Dutch, like a son respects a father, but now, a deeper, more profound conviction had blossomed within him. It was a visceral, absolute certainty that Dutch could achieve anything he set his mind to.

Arthur reached out, gently pulling Mary, who still seemed to be in a pleasant state of shock, into a comforting embrace. Even as a young lady from a wealthy background, she had never witnessed sixty thousand dollars laid out so brazenly. But what truly sent her soaring with ecstasy was the undeniable truth: these sixty thousand dollars were legitimate U.S. dollars, earned by the Van der Linde Gang through their own honest (mostly) efforts, through business. It was the irrefutable proof that Arthur's promise was true, that the Van der Linde Gang had indeed transformed, and with a success so dazzling it defied belief.

Miss O'Shea and Jenny, their faces alight with unadulterated glee, each clung to one of Dutch's arms. Jenny, utterly oblivious to the simmering fury radiating from Miss O'Shea, crowed, "Oh, I believed Dutch would succeed from the very beginning!"

She squeezed his arm, her grip firm, refusing to let go. Miss O'Shea, a volcano of exasperation, practically shoved herself into Dutch's embrace, as if physically staking her claim, forcing his arm around her.

But Dutch, with a practiced ease, gently disentangled himself from both women, plucked a cigar from the table, and exhaled a long plume of smoke, a sigh of profound satisfaction escaping him. "Yes, Hosea," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over the piles of cash, "we succeeded! It's been a whole month since we descended from those unforgiving snowy mountains, and our plan has progressed steadily, finally bearing fruit. This means… we've temporarily found our footing."

Dutch puffed on his cigar, his eyes unreadable as he stared at the nearly seventy thousand dollars before him. The total expenses for purchasing the ranch, constructing the buildings, hiring the workers, even acquiring the machinery and raw materials, had amounted to roughly thirty thousand dollars. In a single month, that thirty thousand had doubled. While a significant portion of it was pre-payments, the bottom line was clear: they had reached a positive return. From this day forward, the Van der Linde Gang's income would normalize, a steady flow of legitimate wealth.

Today, of course, was an anomaly. A special circumstance. It was the first day of business, and he'd practically set off a financial nuclear bomb, yielding a sixty-thousand-dollar windfall in a single morning.

Subsequent income would certainly be less, but given the brand reputation already established, the Saint Denis store alone would likely pull in around a thousand dollars per day, give or take a few hundred. And with four clothing stores now in operation, even a conservative estimate suggested a combined daily income of around two thousand dollars.

(Saint Denis, after all, was a metropolis; the other three were in mere towns.)

That amounted to a staggering sixty thousand dollars a month. After deducting worker wages, the 'VDL' Clothing Store could potentially boast a profit of fifty thousand dollars monthly.

Dutch's clothing store's phenomenal income was primarily due to its revolutionary designs; most other stores in this era were high-end custom tailors, unlike his ready-to-wear model.

This was already far superior to the most audacious bank robbery, and with this kind of income, Dutch Van der Linde could now, truly, stride into the upper echelons of Saint Denis society.

Dutch's gaze swept over the ecstatic faces of his gang members, and his voice, which had been thick with emotion and joy, hardened, taking on a sudden, chilling solemnity. "Alright, gentlemen, ladies, pull yourselves together. We still have a tough battle ahead!"

As Dutch's tone shifted, Arthur's head snapped up, his brow furrowing in immediate suspicion. "Are we going to rob again, Dutch?" he asked, a touch of weariness in his voice, then added, "Or, more likely, is someone going to rob us?"

"Of course someone wants to rob us, son!" Dutch nodded, a grim smirk playing on his lips. He picked up a pistol from the table, casually checking its weight. "The temptation of sixty thousand dollars in this West is enough to drive every gang, every lowlife, absolutely insane! I think even we wouldn't refuse a train loaded with sixty thousand dollars, would we, Arthur? Oh, that's a huge temptation!" As Dutch spoke, Hosea's genial expression vanished, replaced by a look of profound seriousness.

"Oh, Dutch, I don't understand," Hosea began, a puzzled frown on his face. He gestured towards the piles of cash. "Are we going to transport these dollars back ourselves? Couldn't we just deposit them in a Saint Denis bank?"

"No, Hosea," Dutch shook his head, a decisive, almost violent gesture. He tapped the pistol in his hand. "Our money cannot, cannot be deposited in a Saint Denis bank. Although we are now openly running a legitimate business here, in reality, we are still wanted criminals in two states. If this money is deposited in a bank, it is very likely to be frozen directly. And then, my dear Hosea, our money will no longer be ours!" Dutch's gaze drifted to the sunlight streaming in through the window, following its golden path across the city, his eyes finally settling on the distant, opulent silhouette of Signor Bronte's mansion.

"Ho ho ho," Dutch chuckled, a mirthless sound. "I think, if I'm not mistaken, the news of our sixty thousand dollars has already been… released… by Signor Bronte." He gave a dark, knowing wink.

"Arthur, John!" Dutch snapped, his voice sharp with urgency. "Go to the gun store. Buy some rifles, plenty of ammunition, and some dynamite. We need to leave quickly, boys. The police in Saint Denis won't help us wanted criminals, and besides," he added, a cruel twist to his lips, "Signor Bronte won't let them help us!"

Arthur and John, their faces grim, instantly stood up, their previous excitement replaced by a boiling rage. They strode quickly towards the door.

"Alright, Dutch," Arthur gritted out, his jaw clenched, "I want to see who dares to rob our money!" He practically stomped out, utterly furious. Life had just settled into something resembling normalcy, and someone was already trying to tear it all down. Who wouldn't be angry?!

"Oh, fuck!" John snarled, his hand already on the doorknob, his eyes narrowed into slits. "Damn Bronte! Why don't we just kill him right now?!" He spat the words out. Damn it, Dutch hasn't even said anything yet, and you, Bronte, are already acting up!

Though there was no official news, though it was still just one of Dutch's infuriatingly accurate conjectures, the members of the Van der Linde Gang had completely bought into his words. They would act, instantly and without question, a testament to Dutch's current, ironclad prestige.