Colm's Ham

"Hya! Hya!"

The ground beneath their horses' thunderous hooves trembled and groaned, a visceral testament to the raw, ancient power of a cavalry charge. The sheer suppressive might of mounted men was an almost forgotten art, but Dutch and his loyalists wielded it with terrifying grace. Accompanied by the frantic, echoing neighs of their steeds, Dutch led his formidable forces, galloping relentlessly towards the source of the recent, glorious gunshots.

The O'Driscoll Gang, those perpetually disheveled miscreants, had retreated in a panicked, utterly humiliating rout. Some, in their desperate scramble for survival, had even hacked the ropes of their wagons, abandoning their cargo entirely to flee on horseback the moment the Maxim gun began its infernal roar. They left behind a scattered, pathetic trail of wagons, some still smoldering with overturned kerosene lamps, others gruesomely riddled with Maxim gun fire, a grim testament to their utter defeat.

As Dutch and his triumphant men arrived, Balke and Jackson, emerging from the depths of their hastily constructed bunker, practically leapt out, their faces a mixture of adrenaline and beaming pride. They stumbled over themselves, rushing towards Dutch. "Mr. Dutch, Mr. Dutch!" Balke shouted, his voice hoarse, gesturing wildly towards the receding shadows. "Those damned gang members have already fled, Sir! They ran like scalded dogs towards the snowy mountains!"

"Excellent, gentlemen, excellent!" Dutch boomed, a wide, satisfied grin splitting his face. He rode his horse forward, leading Arthur, John, Davey, Mac, and the others into the ravaged clearing, not forgetting to punctuate his praise with a magnanimous wave of his hand. "Your performance was outstanding, truly! And I've decided, as a mark of my profound appreciation, to bestow upon each of you a handsome fifteen-dollar bonus this month!"

"Oh, no! Mr. Dutch, this is simply what we should do!" Jackson protested vehemently, shaking his head, his face a mask of earnest refusal. "We cannot, in good conscience, accept any more of your generous money! After all, we receive such magnificently high wages precisely to ensure the factory's sacred safety!" This wasn't mere politeness; it was their genuine, almost fanatical devotion. Dutch's kindness had long since utterly captivated them. At this moment, their first thought wasn't their own meager interests, but the boundless interests of Mr. Dutch.

Dutch, however, was having none of it. He raised a firm hand, cutting off their fervent refusals, his voice dripping with persuasive charm. "Yes, gentlemen, I hired you to ensure the factory's safety, that is true. But at the same time, your brave, exemplary performance, your sheer, audacious courage, should also be rewarded accordingly! This is not merely a bonus; this is a commendation for your unwavering bravery, and also my deepest, most heartfelt expectation of you! Gentlemen, your lives are already difficult enough. This fifteen dollars, while perhaps insignificant to my humble self, might be enough to send your children to a good school! So, please, I implore you, accept these rewards. This is also my sincere hope for your families, and a blessing upon your very lives."

Dutch was truly, magnificently Dutch; his words were a symphony of emotional manipulation, always designed to move people to the point of utter, teary-eyed breakdown. The moment he finished speaking, Jackson and Balke were practically sobbing, their eyes wide and glistening!

"Sh*t!" they thought, utterly overwhelmed. "This is the respected Mr. Dutch! He always thinks of doing more for us, always, always, and never, not once, cares about his own miserable gains or losses!"

"Oh, Mr. Dutch, oh, Mr. Dutch~~~" Jackson and Balke choked out, their bodies trembling and shaking with raw emotion, unable to even string together a complete sentence. Their eyes reddened further, and they stood rooted to the spot, profoundly moved, the sheer impact of his words reverberating through their very souls.

And it wasn't just the two of them who were utterly captivated; the more than thirty gunmen surrounding them, still mounted, wore uniform smiles of pride and fierce loyalty. Their burning desire to repay Mr. Dutch, to prove themselves worthy, reached its absolute zenith at that very moment. Previously, seeing their fellow workers stumble upon money or earn higher wages would have sparked a bitter, gnawing envy.

But now, witnessing Jackson and Balke receive Dutch's profound, personal reward, they felt not a single flicker of jealousy or resentment. Instead, their hearts swelled with an almost religious gratitude for Dutch and an immense, almost paternal, pride for Jackson and Balke. 'Excellent, Jackson and Balke,' they thought as one, 'you two have not failed Mr. Dutch's glorious expectations! You have displayed our spirit, our unwavering will! Most importantly, you have earned Mr. Dutch's recognition of us!' Yes, Mr. Dutch's recognition was now the most coveted prize in their hearts, eclipsing all else. They were like children longing for their father's praise, desperately eager to receive his acknowledgment and heartfelt commendation! Dutch's charm, truly, was astonishing.

At this moment, Dutch had already led Arthur, Davey, and a few others on horseback to the grim, scattered remains of the O'Driscoll Gang's abandoned wagons. There were quite a few of these forlorn boards, at least seventeen or eighteen at a glance. Five were even stacked together in a pathetic attempt to form some sort of barrier against Maxim gun bullets – a strategy as effective as trying to stop a charging bull with a daisy. Naturally, these stacked wagons were utterly, comprehensively riddled with bullets, their splintered boards smeared with chilling bloodstains and fragments of torn, grisly clothing. Behind these makeshift barricades lay five more corpses, disfigured beyond recognition by the sheer force of the bullets. Some were missing limbs, others had their abdominal cavities horrifyingly hollowed out by explosive rounds, presenting an utterly bloody and tragic tableau.

Arthur dismounted his horse, a grimace of disgust twisting his features. He then grabbed one of the mangled corpses from the ground, his gaze sweeping over its pulped face. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he let out a choked exclamation, "Oh, sh*t, Dutch! This is Colm's man! I recognize him; I saw him the last time we had that… unpleasant meeting with Colm!"

"Oh?" Dutch muttered, a slight frown of intrigue creasing his brow. He dismounted his horse with unhurried grace and, with a casual disregard for the gruesome scene, pulled up another corpse for a closer look.

"Damn it," Dutch grunted, a dark chuckle rumbling in his chest. "This really is Colm's man! And not just any man, but Colm's notoriously 'capable' assistant! His name… Johnson, I believe. Arthur, look what I've found!" Dutch's eyes, wide with a macabre glee, fixed on a spot behind the wagons, then slowly, dramatically, he pointed a gloved finger. "Damn! A severed leg! Boy. A severed leg of Colm himself! Damn it, this must be Colm's leg, because his clothing is always the most… distinctive!"

There, on the blood-soaked ground behind the wagons, lay a severed leg, still oozing, its fracture a ragged, grotesque tear, clearly ripped apart by the brutal impact force of machine gun bullets. And the trousers and shoes clinging to this grisly limb were indeed utterly unique, allowing for an instant, undeniable identification of its former owner!

Dutch and Colm, those two warring titans, had once been partners. In their twisted hearts, they were remarkably similar, both yearning for the supposed "civilization" of a new era, yet simultaneously desiring the freedom to plunder it savagely at will. And their peculiar yearning for refinement led to many shared eccentricities, such as their dressing style. Colm, much like Dutch, harbored a deep fondness for elegant, handsome gentleman's attire, and these clothes, crucially, had to be distinctive! In the game, Dutch always wore the best-looking clothes, and Colm, in his own depraved way, was no different. Their garments were always fashionable, impeccably fitted, and handsome, instantly broadcasting their status as the "boss."

So, upon seeing this severed leg, Dutch almost immediately recognized its true, gruesome owner. And the familiar corpses of Colm's men strewn around him further solidified his chilling suspicion.

"Oh, look, gentlemen, look what I've found," Dutch announced, his voice laced with theatrical satisfaction, "Colm's severed leg! Sh*t, no wonder so many of Colm's loyal men died like flies; it turns out Mr. Colm himself took a rather personal hit from the machine gun! Arthur, John, Davey, Mac, Bill, Sean, Lenny, and Mr. JD, follow their tracks. Find Colm. Mr. Colm has suffered such severe injuries that he certainly can't have gone far. Remember, only chase to the edge of the snowy mountains at most. If you haven't found him by then, just come back. Mr. Colm isn't important enough to derail our grand plans!"

"Alright, Dutch!!" Arthur and the others nodded, their faces grim yet determined. At Dutch's command, several swift horses galloped off, their riders following the grim tracks left by Colm and his bleeding men towards the cold, unforgiving snowy mountains.

"As for the rest of you gentlemen," Dutch directed the remaining men, his voice calm and authoritative, waving his hand towards the scene, "those who need to sleep should go back to rest; we wouldn't want to jeopardize tomorrow's endeavors. And the gentlemen on duty, please deal with these… unfortunate corpses and pull all the flatbeds back to the ranch; these can serve as our wagons for transporting goods."

Dutch himself, holding Mr. Colm's severed leg with a bizarre reverence, slowly rode back towards the wooden cabin.

"Oh, Colm, my dear Sir," Dutch chuckled to himself, a genuinely unsettling glint in his eye as he looked down at the gruesome trophy. "I never expected us to meet again in this… intimate way. Damn it, I simply must cure and air-dry this leg of yours. I wonder if it can shrink enough to serve as a charming little trinket on my stirrup? Hahahaha, Mr. O'Driscoll, I truly look forward to our next meeting. Perhaps you'll have a few more spare parts to contribute."

Dutch continued to chuckle as he carried Colm's severed leg, riding purposefully towards the wooden cabin. He had a brilliant idea: he would hang the leg from the eaves with a sturdy rope, cure and air-dry it with smoke, and if he ever had the glorious chance to see Mr. Colm alive again, this grim memento could serve as a small, personal gift. Or, he mused, with a final, darkly humorous flourish, it could even provide some much-needed rations for Mr. Colm on his inevitable, begging journey.