Ol Friend

"Beep beep beep beep…"

An urgent, piercing whistle shrieked through the pre-dawn quiet of the factory. The ranch, vast and sprawling, swallowed some of the sound, but it was enough to jolt the distant gunners on watch. The moment they heard that urgent, soul-stirring blast, these hardened men, touched by Dutch's improbable grace, instantly went wild.

"Damn it, someone actually dares to rob Mr. Dutch's factory!" one bellowed, grabbing his rifle, his eyes blazing. "Gentlemen, hurry, hurry, HURRY! Mr. Dutch's factory is not allowed to lose even a single flower or blade of grass! Jackson, blow the whistle faster!"

Three gunners, patrolling nearby, their faces contorted with furious zeal, snatched up their weapons and sprinted towards the sound, their boots pounding on the frozen earth. To them, Mr. Dutch was more than a boss; he was their very lifeline, and he could not suffer indignity!

"Beep beep beep beep…" A frantic chorus of whistles erupted from their mouths, a cacophony of alarm that successfully ripped the sleeping female workers from their dreams.

"Ugh, damn it, it's a whistle!" one woman grumbled, rubbing sleep from her eyes before a fierce determination hardened her features. "My husband said a whistle means an enemy is coming! Damn it, our lives have just started to get better, and I absolutely won't allow anyone to come and destroy it! Baby, hide yourself well," she snarled to a hidden child, her voice now a low growl, "Mommy is going to tear those damned bastards to pieces!"

"Shit! I will never allow anyone to destroy my life!" another shrieked, snatching up a heavy iron skillet.

"Fight them! We must not let Mr. Dutch be in any danger!!!" Their screams, raw and furious, echoed through the chill of the night.

These women, usually so delicate and demure, were now transformed into furies, grabbing whatever makeshift weapon they could find. Some, armed with old guns, others with kitchen knives or splintered wooden sticks, poured from their rooms, charging towards the source of the whistle.

Dutch was their 'savior', just as in another time. When Dutch plucked them from the filthy, impoverished sewers they called slums, and bestowed upon them bread, warm houses, and the promise of new lives, only one deity remained in their minds: Dutch. Of course, a timid few cowered, whimpering, but they were a minority among minorities.

However, just as these desperate women rushed out, a thunderous roar erupted from behind them. Several swift horses, ridden by figures draped in shadow, came thundering past. Dutch, astride a magnificent white horse, a shotgun cradled in his hand, appeared before their wide, anxious eyes like a true, avenging angel, a veritable God descended to protect his flock.

"My God, ladies, you can't be so crazy!" Dutch boomed, a mixture of exasperation and pride on his face. "You still have to work tomorrow! JD! Leave five men to make sure these ladies go back to sleep!"

JD, the captain of the security team, instantly peeled off five men who reined in their galloping horses, sternly ordering the furious women back to bed. Meanwhile, the main security team and the mounted Van der Linde Gang members thundered past, a mighty procession galloping towards the direction of the whistle.

"Oh, hurry and help Mr. Dutch, gentlemen!" a group of women screamed, already ushering the remaining five reluctant guards forward. "We can go back by ourselves!"

At Jackson's bunker, the battle was already on the very edge of eruption. The darkness was thick, impenetrable. After approaching the ranch, Colm, in a fit of overconfidence, hadn't bothered to douse his kerosene lamps. Instead, he spurred his men on, accelerating their pace, the lights swaying wildly. To him, sixty men attacking twenty meant an undeniable advantage.

But they had made one fatal miscalculation: twenty on watch meant twenty more on shift change, making the total closer to forty. Not that Colm would have known; few bosses in this era provided food and lodging for their men, so such a well-staffed operation was outside his comprehension. These were minor oversights, however. The truly critical omission was the presence of two Maxim guns, zeroed in for a devastating crossfire. And the entire Van der Linde Gang, a collection of some of the deadliest guns in the West, was also present.

Colm, blissfully ignorant, spurred his fast horse forward, relying on its unburdened speed. He quickly approached the north gate of the factory.

"Charge for me!" Colm roared, his voice hoarse with bloodlust. "Kill all the men! Do whatever you want with the women! And drag every single sewing machine back to me!!!"

Colm was a legend in his own brutal right. His strength, though not quite Dutch's, was formidable; he was a true first-class gunner, certainly no worse than a brute like Bill. His sheer power, combined with the preemptive advantage of a night raid, made him feel invincible.

Especially at this north gate, a quick glance revealed no apparent defenses. Apart from a lone whistle-blower behind a small, insignificant mound not far from the entrance, not a single gunner was visible. This false sense of security made Colm even more reckless, more utterly convinced of his triumph.

"Charge! Charge! Kill all the men…" Colm bellowed, his voice straining to boost his gang members' morale. But before the words had even fully escaped his lips, a tiny, almost imperceptible flash of fire erupted from the base of that innocuous mound, followed by the chilling crack of gunfire.

In that instant, a cold, terrible premonition suddenly seized Colm's heart. The sudden gunshots, somehow, felt chillingly familiar, and those emerging flashes of fire carried an undeniable scent of death. The hairs on Colm's neck bristled, standing on end, but then, the next moment.

"Bang bang bang bang…"

Maxim gun bullets, a relentless storm of lead, tore through the night from the base of the hill. The pungent, metallic stench of gunpowder instantly filled Colm's nostrils, sharp and acrid. Finally, in that agonizing instant, Colm reacted. This shitty little mound hides a bunker!

FUCK YOU!

Two visible lines of fire, like glowing streaks of hellfire, swept towards Colm and the lumbering wagon train in a devastating crossfire pattern. All these thoughts, all these desperate realizations, unfolded in mere instants. The moment Colm saw the muzzle flash, he reacted. As he reacted, the Maxim gun roared. And because of the slight elevation difference, Colm and the horse beneath him bore the full brunt of its fury.

"Bang!"

An intense, searing pain ripped through Colm's left leg. His thigh, and the horse beneath him, both erupted in a grotesque fountain of blood and shredded flesh. The sheer, concussive force of the Maxim gun's impact tore his left thigh clean from his body on the spot. He himself was flung from his horse, tumbling directly to the ground, his world exploding into black. Then, blissful oblivion.

This, Arthur would later muse, was just how utterly, impossibly strong Colm, the legendary king of endurance, truly was.

And the wagon train behind him immediately suffered a devastating, bloody reckoning.

"Bang bang bang…" The relentless roar of the Maxim guns echoed, the wagons behind them splintering, men and horses falling in a sickening heap. Even for the Van der Linde Gang, dealing with a Maxim gun was a dangerous, difficult affair, usually requiring stealth and a careful assassination of the gunners. But for Colm's hapless group, the Maxim was their absolute bane! Not to mention, these two Maxim guns were ensconced within an impenetrable bunker, making any counter-attack utterly futile.

Fortunately, Colm's core members, a small, loyal, and equally vicious few, proved their worth. Immediately, seven desperate men, using wagons as makeshift shields, rushed to the side of the unconscious, bleeding Colm. Still using the wagons as desperate cover, at the brutal cost of five more lives, they managed to drag the now legless Colm out of the Maxim gun's devastating firing range.

"Oh, shit! Shit! SHIT! Colm is going to die! Damn it, Colm is going to die!!!" The only two remaining loyal subordinates, their faces pale with terror, scrambled to escape with the one-legged Colm. One drove the wagon, the other desperately tried to staunch Colm's spurting blood with a crude bandage and fire, the searing pain of the cauterization doing little to rouse the unconscious man. Their boss was teetering on the edge of death, and the terrifying, relentless sweep of two Maxim guns paralyzed them with fear. As the enemy's whistle reinforcements grew closer and closer, Colm's wagon team, utterly broken, no longer dared to advance. One by one, they wheeled around, scattering like terrified mice, fleeing back behind Colm's retreating wagon.

Only Colm's severed leg remained behind, a macabre greeting, a mangled token for Dutch, a long-overdue reunion between old friends.