Mountain of Gold

Dutch and his small, triumphant entourage didn't roll back into Hope Happiness Ranch until the moon hung high, a ghostly disc in the midnight sky. Though the hour was late, the ranch was a fortress of ceaseless vigilance. Shadows patrolled its perimeter, and the three newly constructed bunkers loomed like silent beasts, each one manned, its Maxim gun a coiled promise of annihilation for any fools who dared approach.

As Dutch's party drew near, the sentries at the gate snapped to attention, their faces instantly recognizing the figures in the gloom. "Oh, Mr. Van der Linde, you're back!" one bellowed, a wave of profound relief washing over him.

"Mr. Van der Linde is back! Mr. Van der Linde is back!" The cry echoed, picked up by others. Several sentries, abandoning their posts for a breathless moment, jogged forward, their faces practically solidifying with gratitude and unadulterated reverence.

Their lives, under the bizarre, benevolent tyranny of Mr. Dutch Van der Linde, had become a surreal dream. Those with families could finally ensure their loved ones were fed, clothed, safe. Their wages, unlike any they'd known, were paid on time, and they'd even received a pristine set of ready-made clothes from the factory.

When had these wretched souls, who'd clawed their way through a lifetime of hardship, ever encountered such a saintly boss? A single ready-made garment, at twenty-five dollars, was practically a month's salary! They had never, ever worn such fine clothes. New clothes, steady wages, a stable, peaceful, impossibly simple, and happy life—how could they not be utterly intoxicated? How could they not worship the very ground Dutch walked on?

And those gunmen or factory girls without families? Here, they could meet, fall in love, forge futures. Before, merely surviving was a daily miracle. Now, they had food, lodging, wages, and even partners. For them, this was simply paradise. A beautiful dream they wouldn't have dared to conjure even in their wildest opium-fueled fantasies! Their reverence for Dutch was no longer mere respect; it was etched into their very bones.

Moreover, because they ate, lived, and shared laughter with their new "family," the Van der Linde gang members themselves had shed all airs, mingling and joking freely with the recruits. Thus, in just one short, bewildering month, Hope Ranch had morphed into their sacred home, their future hope, their lifelong pursuit. No one knew what dark magic Dutch Van der Linde possessed, but every soul who followed him simply, effortlessly, integrated into the fold.

Even if they had been the most despicable, unruly scumbags before, once they joined this bizarre family, their vile natures simply vanished, never to be shown to their own again.

Guarding the ranch, once just a job, had now become a sacred duty, something they genuinely desired, deep in their hearts, simply to ensure their home remained utterly safe.

"Yes, gentlemen, we are back!" Dutch proclaimed, his smile radiating warmth, even in the dim light. He turned to John. "John, go distribute the cigarettes and fine wine we brought back to everyone. But remember, don't drink too much while on guard. We need to provide an absolutely safe environment for the ladies inside, gentlemen."

If Dutch were merely a benevolent leader, such free-spirited behavior might have been disastrous, leading to a weak master and strong servants. But he was no mere benevolent leader; he was a grand, manipulative villain. And villains, he knew, needed to cultivate internal goodwill to bend men to their will, to make them risk their lives for his grand, bloody designs.

Listening to Dutch's words, feeling his warmth, and receiving the high-grade cigarettes and fine wine distributed by John, the guards practically melted. They crowded around him, their faces alight with excitement, each one eager to express their reverence and admiration.

At that moment, the other members of the Van der Linde Gang, who had been sound asleep in their beds, were abruptly roused by the commotion.

"Oh, Dutch, you're finally back!" Davey's voice, thick with sleep, boomed as he pushed open his door, emerging in pajamas, a happy, relieved grin spreading across his face as he spotted Dutch at the main entrance.

"Yeah, we've been bored to death staying here!" Mac complained loudly from behind David, pushing past him, already rubbing his hands together. He really had been cooped up. Before, in the gang, he'd been out scouting for robbery marks, but now, all the "work" was handled by others.

His daily routine consisted solely of drinking himself into a stupor and visiting the saloon girls in Valentine. This newfound, peaceful existence brought him no sense of leisure, only a gnawing, existential boredom.

These desperadoes, raised in exile, molded by a life of constant motion, had long become accustomed to a nomadic existence. Dutch often mused that none of them, truly, could endure a life of growing mangoes in Tahiti. Their very souls were branded with the mark of the desperado, a label they would, in the end, see through to its bitter end.

Hearing Mac's lament, Dutch burst into a hearty laugh, a deep rumble that vibrated through the air. "Oh, Mac, don't complain, child, because now you really do have new work! Come on, everyone, come in, I need to arrange some work for all of you."

The gang members shuffled into the main house, their curiosity piqued. Abigail, Ms. Grimshaw, Sadie, and even Sean, who had been staying at the ranch, now emerged from their rooms, their faces etched with sleepy confusion or dawning excitement. Charles and Javier, still transporting the latest batch of clothing, were absent.

And Marko? He was nowhere to be found, happily tinkering away in a brand-new laboratory built exclusively for him at Vulture Ranch, delving into the mad scientific topics Dutch had so generously provided.

"Thud!"

Arthur, with a flourish that was almost theatrical, slammed a heavy canvas bag onto the large table around which everyone was now seated. The bag, bulging obscenely, spread open, its contents spilling forth. Stacks of crisp, green bills, their sheer abundance, instantly drew every single eye in the room, making them widen in collective astonishment.

"Oh, shit! This whole bag is full of money?" Mac shrieked, practically vibrating with excitement. He leapt onto a chair, leaning over the table, his eyes shining. "Oh, shit! Dutch, did you rob a bank in Saint Denis?! Oh, unbelievable! How many dollars must this be?!" He bounced up and down, unable to contain himself.

"My goodness, Marston," Abigail gasped, her hand flying to cover her surprised, open mouth, her eyes glued to the mesmerizing pile of cash. "What on earth did you do?"

"Our plan succeeded? Dutch." Davey, ever the stoic, was relatively calmer, but even his voice was laced with a palpable awe as he turned to Dutch, admiration shining in his eyes.

Grimshaw, Tilly, Lenny, Bill, Sean, Pearson, and even Uncle, that grizzled, perpetually lazy "one-shot kid," all crowded around the table, their faces a tableau of pure marvel as they gazed at the heavy stacks of dollars. The nearly seventy thousand dollars displayed so brazenly had a profound impact on them all, and hearing David's hushed exclamation only intensified their delight. Dutch's plan really succeeded? This was the harvest of his successful plan?

Dutch, bathed in the glow of their collective admiration and burgeoning respect, chuckled, a deep, satisfied rumble. He nodded. "Yes, gentlemen, ladies, our plan succeeded. This nearly seventy thousand dollars is the Saint Denis clothing store's one-day income!"

"My God! One day's income? SEVENTY THOUSAND DOLLARS IN ONE DAY?!" Even the previously calm David's voice was now hoarse, broken, a ragged gasp of disbelief.

Mac and the others were even worse, instantly erupting into a cacophony of shouts.

"My God! Seventy thousand in one day, Dutch?! This is much faster than robbing a bank! SHIT! Why didn't we get into the clothing business from the start?! Damn!" Mac practically wept with a mixture of joy and retrospective frustration.

"Oh, Marston, is this true? MARSTON?!" Abigail's hands were already tightly gripping John's, her eyes wide with ecstatic wonder as she bounced up and down.

And Uncle, who had been leaning over the table, his face a picture of awe, looked at Dutch with even greater emotion, a tear almost welling in his eye. "God, Dutch, I feel like I don't even know you anymore! Damn it, you've really… changed now, Dutch!"

Arthur, who had been standing just beside Uncle, suddenly gagged, coughing violently, quickly clapping a hand over his nose and backing away. "Oh, shit! Old fungus, it's you who's rotten through, damn it, you stink! I remember giving you your own room, why are you still sleeping on horse manure these days?!"

"Shit, ugh! Arthur!" Uncle retorted, a look of profound displeasure on his face. His life, he felt, had been absolutely wonderful lately, and he hadn't had a spare moment to indulge in something as mundane as a bath.