Aftermath

"Bang, bang, bang..."

The symphony of gunfire, once a furious crescendo, now dwindled to scattered, echoing pops, then to a chilling silence. The screams that had torn through the downpour, the desperate cries for help from the train passengers, slowly, mercifully, faded away. The heavy rain intensified, a relentless deluge, a thick, weeping curtain that swallowed the distant trees, blurring the world into a sodden canvas of grey.

"Bang!"

The final rifle shot cracked through the storm, an exclamation point marking the utter annihilation of the Lemoyne Raiders. The remaining six or seven, their mounts lathered with foam, frantically spurred their horses into the blurring distance, their screams of terror ripping through the wind.

"Ahhhh! Devil! It's the devil!!!"

"Don't kill me, please don't kill me!!!"

Dutch lowered his two M1899 pistols, their barrels scorching, plumes of steam rising into the cold air. He casually blew on one, a thin plume of smoke curling from his lips. Miraculously, the pure metal construction of these era-specific firearms held true; a lesser gun would have warped, perhaps even exploded, ending him then and there.

"Shit! Mr. Bronte, that damn bastard!" Dutch snarled, his eyes blazing. He slammed his two pistols onto a nearby train seat with a metallic clatter, then slumped back, turning to Hosea. "Are you alright, old friend?"

"Of course, Dutch," Hosea chuckled, a relieved sigh escaping him as he leaned his rifle against a seat. "Arthur solved most of the burden for us." He rose, his movements a little stiff, and strode to the open carriage door, shouting into the deluge, "Arthur, John, how are you two, my boys?"

"I'm fine, Hosea!" Arthur's voice boomed back from the rear of the carriage. Incredibly, after such a chaotic, close-quarters gunfight, he bore not a single injury, not even a scratch. He was a force of nature.

At that moment, Arthur was already opening the door of the back cargo car, ushering Miss O'Shea and the other ladies out. "Come on, ladies, it's safe now!"

"Oh, Arthur, it's so good to see you!" Karen shrieked with delight, her eyes wide as saucers. She launched herself at him, a surprisingly forceful tackle, wrapping her arms around his neck and practically spinning him around, oblivious to his slight groan.

Mary-Beth, her face etched with residual fear and worry, rushed over, her hands fluttering over Arthur's body, checking him over, up and down, as if searching for a hidden wound. Her childhood had been sheltered, and this was her first taste of true, unbridled terror. A silent prayer of thanks that Arthur was unharmed escaped her lips; otherwise, her heart would surely have shattered.

Just as Arthur found himself caught in this post-battle, subtly ambiguous moment, a booming shout echoed from inside the carriage.

"Van der Linde! Van der Linde! Are you alright? Van der Linde!!!" Miss O'Shea emerged from the cargo car, her eyes scanning desperately for Dutch. This woman, Arthur mused, was truly, irrevocably devoted to the old fool.

"Oh, I'm fine, Miss O'Shea," Dutch's voice resonated from the middle carriage, laced with a familiar, dramatic reassurance. "Don't you worry, lady. Just come over slowly." Miss O'Shea visibly sagged with relief, then, finally, remembered Arthur.

"Oh, thank you, Arthur," she said, her voice softer, a genuine note of gratitude. She glanced between Arthur and Mary-Beth, then added, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Molly," Arthur replied, a practiced, almost reflexive response. He instinctively stepped aside, clearing the path for Miss O'Shea to continue her urgent pilgrimage to her beloved Van der Linde.

Mary-Beth, her gaze still fixed on Miss O'Shea's retreating back, gave Karen a bewildered look. Karen merely shrugged, a helpless, knowing expression on her face. "She's always like this. You'll get used to it."

No sooner had Karen finished speaking than Jenny, a blur of eager movement, squeezed past her. "Oh, Arthur, can I get through too? I want to see how Dutch is doing!"

Arthur rubbed his nose, a sheepish grin on his face, and instinctively moved aside again. "Of course, Jenny."

"Uh… well, this is what Dutch deserves," Karen muttered under her breath, watching Jenny practically sprint after Miss O'Shea.

Fortunately, at that moment, Mary-Beth finally emerged, her face still etched with concern. She gently laid a hand on Arthur's arm, her voice soft. "Oh, Arthur, how are you truly feeling?"

"Uh… I'm fine, Mary-Beth." Arthur nodded, a sincere smile finally touching his lips.

"Alright, ladies, let's go over too." Mary-Beth ushered the other women, and the trio followed Arthur's footsteps towards the carriage where Dutch presided.

Meanwhile, John Marston, the sole, lonely, and utterly uncared-for soul in this post-battle reunion, had already clambered from the front of the train to the central carriage where Dutch held court. Poor him. He probably hadn't even gotten a 'You alright, son?'

The rain intensified, a true deluge now. The heavy downpour severely hampered the horses' speed and stability, meaning Dutch and his group no longer had to worry about pursuing enemies.

They had claimed a heavy toll in this brutal engagement. The immense lure of seventy thousand dollars had driven the Lemoyne Raiders to dispatch a full sixty men. Fifty-two of those sixty now lay dead in the driving rain. Under the devastating precision of marksmen like Arthur, Dutch, and even John, the Raiders hadn't stood a chance, unable to even close the distance. Fighting a train on horseback was inherently a defender's game, a death trap. This hapless group, one could say, died utterly without injustice. Mr. Bronte's meticulously crafted plan had failed.

The three train guards returned to their positions, their faces pale but resolute. The three gunmen sent by the Jones Family, grim-faced and silent, faithfully stood at the rear of the train, their eyes scanning the rain-soaked tracks for any sign of pursuit. Their role in this battle had been purely harassment; due to the train's protective steel shell, they suffered no casualties, but they hadn't killed anyone either. Shooting at moving targets from a moving train was a challenge only for true masters.

Only the Van der Linde Gang, a tight-knit group of desperate outlaws turned industrialists, gathered in the luxurious central carriage, the train's rhythmic clatter a backdrop to their post-battle discussion. They sat around the impromptu bar, Dutch already having uncorked a bottle of red wine, pouring a generous glass for everyone.

"Oh, gentlemen, ladies," Dutch declared, raising his glass with a flourish, "we have successfully overcome the crisis. Come, let us toast and celebrate our safety! Cheers!"

"Cheers!" a chorus of voices echoed. Dutch clinked glasses with Arthur, John, and Hosea, then drained the red wine in his glass in a single, defiant gulp.

He then turned to John. "John, give the three train guards ten dollars each as a tip. And the three Jones Family gunmen, fifteen dollars each as a tip.We will also have to compensate the families of the passed..." He pulled a thick wad of US dollars from his pocket and handed them over. "Alright, Dutch." John took the money, a slight grin on his face, and headed towards the back of the car. These men had put their lives on the line today, and Dutch, ever the pragmatist, knew that only rewards could truly stimulate initiative.

John departed to distribute the funds. Hosea and Arthur settled beside Dutch, Hosea putting down his wine glass, his gaze serious. "So, Dutch," he began, his voice low, "was this indeed an assassination attempt arranged by Mr. Bronte?"

"No, Hosea," Dutch replied, taking a slow sip of his red wine, his eyes narrowed, a cold glint in them. He took a drag from his cigar. "These fools were merely incited by Mr. Bronte. Looking at their crude clothing and the firearms in their hands, I'd say they were the Lemoyne Raiders. The real assassins, my friend, would only appear after these buffoons succeeded. This is a common tactic of the Mafia, and indeed, any urban gang."

"So, Mr. Bronte truly wants to be our enemy?" Hosea looked at Dutch, a profound worry etched onto his face. To be honest, he truly feared Bronte as an enemy. Not for himself, not for the threat to his own life, but for the devastating impact it could have on Dutch's grand plan, on the bright future they had just begun to build.

That, for Hosea, was an unacceptable outcome. Their gang's life had just begun to change; a group of lost souls had finally found purpose. He couldn't bear for their lives to revert to their original state—wandering, terrified, their fates unknown.

"Oh, shit!" Arthur cursed from the side, slamming his fist lightly on the table. He simply couldn't lose the life he was building now. He couldn't tolerate the thought of wandering again, especially not with Mary. It would drag him back to his outlaw status, putting Mary's precious life in mortal danger.