Colm

Hearing Mr. Martelli's response, Bronte finally exhaled, a long, drawn-out sigh of grudging relief. He slowly sank back onto his plush sofa, his eyes, dark and fathomless, lost in a swirling vortex of thought.

A maid, quick as a ghost, stepped forward, igniting a fresh cigar and placing it delicately between Bronte's fingers. The air in the room grew heavy, thick with the silent, suffocating weight of his contemplation.

After a long, oppressive silence, Bronte finally spoke, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Triple the manor's security! Triple it! Day and night, every damn direction, two men on guard! Constantly! Dammmit, how can these cattle-herding imbeciles be so powerful?!" He slammed his fist lightly on the armrest, his jaw clenched, a vein throbbing in his temple.

"Yes, sir!" Mr. Martelli snapped, a flurry of gestures. A subordinate, his face pale, instantly scurried backward to relay Bronte's furious command. Another Mafia member, a silent, hulking figure, quickly shuffled in through the doorway, taking up a rigid stance behind Mr. Martelli, awaiting his master's next capricious order.

Do not underestimate these underlings; each was a petty king in Saint Denis's underworld, managing their own brutal fiefdoms. Yet here, they were merely shadows, extensions of Bronte's power, bowing to his subordinates' subordinates.

"Thump, thump, thump..." Bronte's fingers tapped a restless, almost frantic rhythm on the polished tabletop as he pondered, his eyes darting. Finally, he spoke again, a new, insidious idea forming. "During this period, send men to Valentine. Ascertain the precise, numerical strength of this Van der Linde Gang. And, more importantly, ensure that none of our people—understand, Martelli, none—provoke them!" He took a deep, deliberate drag from his cigar, exhaling a thin stream of smoke. "Furthermore, you yourself will go to the Van der Linde Gang's clothing store. Get a membership. And have our men subtly try to recruit their members with money. Promise each of them five hundred, no—one thousand! A high price of one thousand American dollars!" Bronte's lip curled in a sneer of contemptuous certainty. "Damn it, I don't believe they can resist the allure of money!"

"Also," Bronte added, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "go put pressure on the Saint Denis Sheriff. How can such a gang of desperadoes brazenly open a shop in my Saint Denis? They are neglecting their duties! Utterly neglecting them!"

"Yes, sir!" Mr. Martelli replied repeatedly, his head bobbing frantically, already turning to carry out the orders.

Bronte finally, truly, grudgingly acknowledged it: the Van der Linde Gang was a formidable problem. He yearned to find someone, anyone, to deal with them, but the Lemoyne Raiders had already proven, with their bloody annihilation, that the Van der Linde Gang was not to be confronted with brute force.

Now, few people would openly clash with them; bounties across American states weren't interconnected, making the Van der Linde members here, to all intents and purposes, simply normal citizens, utterly devoid of criminal records. Even if he leaked their true identities to the Pinkerton Detective Agency, the Pinkertons no longer possessed the legal right to enforce laws across state lines. And the wealthy class of Saint Denis, a collective of cynical opportunists, was actually counting on the Van der Linde Gang to deal with him.

Bronte thought long and hard, his mind churning, but he truly couldn't find a single soul, a single faction, that could help him, or deal with the Van der Linde Gang on his behalf! He couldn't act openly, and even if he did, he couldn't win. He couldn't find anyone to engage them in a joint offensive. He could only defend, and even then, he felt a chilling insecurity.

This was, truly, an extremely tricky, utterly infuriating situation! The horrific bloodshed committed by the Van der Linde Gang in Blackwater Town, which he had initially dismissed as exaggerated rumor, he now believed, with a cold, terrifying certainty.

And just like Bronte, there were others who, in their own twisted way, refused to believe in true evil.

At this very moment, in a sheltered, miserable gully at the foot of the snow-capped mountains, less than ten kilometers from Valentine, a constellation of harsh, flickering lights pierced the suffocating darkness. The snow-covered ground was dotted with tents, at least twenty or thirty by a rough estimate, like festering boils on the pristine white landscape.

Over sixty men huddled in the camp, a ragged, desperate force. Barely half of them even had horses, but it was still a considerable number, a pack of hungry wolves.

These sixty-plus men were currently engaged in the laborious, crude act of lashing flatbed carts together, harnessing horses to them, preparing for a long, arduous haul.

These were the carriages the O'Driscoll Gang had recently plundered, scavenged for the sole purpose of transporting stolen sewing machines.

And at the heart of this squalid camp, the venomous leader of the O'Driscoll Gang, Colm O'Driscoll, sat astride his horse, a cigarette clutched in his grimy fingers. He watched his men, a sneer twisting his lips, as they wrestled with the harnesses.

"Johnson," Colm rasped, the smoke curling from his nostrils, "have you scouted the place?"

Johnson, perched on another horse, instantly snapped to attention. "I've already scouted it, boss," he replied, his voice eager, almost breathless. "That ranch, it's got people patrolling day and night. And plenty of female workers during the day—not conducive to our attack. So I think going at night is perfect; we can catch 'em off guard!" He grinned, a flash of rotting teeth.

"How many gunmen are inside?" Colm demanded, his frown deepening. He had been agitated recently, a restless fury coiling in his gut. Mr. Cornwall's relentless hounds had resumed their pursuit after the snowstorm had finally broken. And to make matters worse, other sycophants, trying to curry favor with the oil baron, had sent their own hired gunmen into the treacherous snowy mountains, tracking them like bloodhounds. It was making their lives a living hell. "Damn this Cornwall!" Colm spat, a glob of tobacco juice hitting the snow. "Why can a capitalist have so much power! Damn it!"

Johnson, seeing his boss's rising ire, quickly responded, his voice almost a hurried whisper. "According to our observations, there should be about twenty gunmen inside. There's also a large wooden house inside, obscured by the surrounding factory sheds, so it's unclear, but even if there are people patrolling inside, it'd only be five more at most!" Johnson finished, his chest puffing out with pride at his detailed intelligence.

Colm nodded, a cruel, satisfied smile spreading across his face. "Very good, Johnson, very good! Damn Cornwall, his relentless pursuit has left us practically starving! So this factory, this rich little nest, will be the compensation for our brothers!" He took a long, slow drag from his cigarette, then dropped it, crushing it under his heel.

"Johnson," Colm snarled, his eyes gleaming with a dark, depraved hunger, "give the order: we'll start advancing now. We'll hit this damned factory tonight! I hear there are many female workers inside?" He chuckled, a guttural, ugly sound. "Tell the brothers they can do whatever they want with these female workers, but I want every single sewing machine transported back! Every last one!"

Colm was overjoyed. Hiding in these desolate snowy mountains for a month had made him almost forget the taste of flesh, the feel of a woman. Damn it, he thought, a predatory gleam in his eye, robbing money and people, it was simply exhilarating. The good old days are back. As for the inevitable deaths in his ragtag team? He didn't care. Colm's gang might recruit anyone, but he had his core members, his inner circle of brutes like Johnson, the ones who truly counted. Using these ruthless few to control the desperate masses was the very cornerstone of Colm's power.

In the dark, snow-choked mountains, a convoy of carriages, their lights swaying like drunken fireflies, slowly lurched along the treacherous mountain road.

Over thirty carriages, a grand, imposing silhouette like a long, dark dragon, crept inexorably towards the distant ranch, carrying with them a promise of plunder and unspeakable brutality.