Talk

"Alright, sunshine, I hope you're feeling a sudden, intense urge for honesty from now on," Davey growled, his voice dropping to a low, viper-like hiss as he tightened his grip on Randy's collar.

Randy's left eye, already a magnificent shade of purple, seemed to pulse in sympathy. Davey's lips twisted into a predatory smirk, "Because my patience? It's thinner than a starving man's patience with a buffet line. And darling, I'm the most patient one in this charming little group!" He leaned in, his gaze boring into Randy's soul. "Now speak! How many more arms caches do you really have?!"

Randy's face crumpled, tears gushing like a leaky faucet. "Just one more! Sir, just one more! That's all I know, I swear… Sir, I've only ever been to these two places!" He sobbed out his pitiful life story, a torrent of self-pity and snot. "Sir, I'm not even a Lemoyne Raider! I just… I just know how to mix explosives! I came here to help them whip up some bombs! I'm a gunpowder worker… got fired from the factory for a bit of 'unauthorized borrowing,' and I needed coin, so someone, uh, introduced me to their explosive little enterprise."

Davey's expression, already grim, darkened further, his grip on Randy's collar tightening until the man looked like a wilting daisy. He wound back and delivered another bone-jarring punch to Randy's already swollen face. "I don't care if you're a goddamn Lemoyne Raider or the Queen of England's personal fireworks expert! Dammit, I asked you where the other arms cache is!"

"Ow, stop hitting me, sir, stop hitting me!" Randy wailed, his voice a pathetic squeak. "The other arms cache is in the dilapidated fort in Tall Trees Plains! In the underground cellar of that fort! I was taken there to mix gunpowder! I only know these two places…" Randy was a dazed, blubbering mess, answering Davey's questions between sobs.

"Tall Trees Plains? Dammit, where in the seven hells is that?" Davey scowled, a deep furrow appearing between his brows. This was their first rodeo in Saint Denis, and they hadn't exactly been on a sightseeing tour of the surrounding countryside. Tall Trees Plains meant absolutely nothing to them.

(For those in the know, Tall Trees Plains is where that charming Lemoyne Raiders commander, Lindsay Wofford, hangs out in the game's bounty hunter missions. The fort's a ruin, with a gaping hole in one wall and a basement hiding a Civil War knife. But hey, Davey and the boys are new here, so they're blissfully unaware.)

But ignorance was no obstacle. They had Mr. Randy, their very own human GPS, to guide them, much like Kieran had done in their earlier escapades.

"Very good, sir, very good," Davey purred, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. He gave Randy's collar a slight, almost benevolent, slackening – a small reward for his… cooperation. "Now, for my third question, and I suggest you answer with the same fervent honesty: Where did you get your weapons? Dammit, a haul this size isn't something you just pick up at the general store!"

Randy, still sniffling, didn't dare to utter another ounce of nonsense. "Some Spanish guy gave them, sir! I don't know the specifics. I only know that these weapons have two sources: most of them were brought in by some Spanish, and some were sold by soldiers from Wallace Fort. After our assemblers put them together, some Spanish soldiers in military uniforms take them away. I only heard the name Alberto Fussar; I don't know anything else!"

(The Spanish-American War of 1898. Guarma, a fictional island, should have been US territory around then, but local warlords were still having a grand old time. So, technically US soil, but still crawling with Spanish soldiers.)

"Alberto Fussar?" Before Davey could even process the name, John, who had just finished hauling a particularly chunky corpse, looked over, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

"Oh, you know him, John?" Davey cocked an eyebrow at John, a spark of genuine surprise in his eyes. Dammit, is this Alberto Fussar some big shot? Even John knows him?

John nodded, holstering his revolver with a practiced snap. "I don't know him, Davey, but I've seen him at a fancy shindig in Saint Denis. This Mr. Alberto Fussar is someone Dutch keeps a very close eye on. Seems he runs a sugar factory on Guarma, and Dutch, being Dutch, has grand plans for weapons development there, so he's particularly… interested in him."

John paused, a flicker of disgust crossing his face. "I heard Mr. Fussar still practices slavery on Guarma, so these weapons are very likely purchased by him to suppress runaway slaves." He shrugged, a grim certainty in his tone. "Yeah, this guy's definitely telling the truth, especially since Fussar's name popped up."

"But Wallace Fort selling weapons? That's absolutely insane!" John exclaimed, shaking his head. Wallace Fort was a genuine US military base. The fact that it was now peddling arms spoke volumes about the rot within.

"That's perfectly normal, sir," Randy squeaked, clearly terrified they'd accuse him of lying again. "They can report a certain amount of weapon attrition each year, and the surplus will certainly be sold to generate income!"

"Alright, sir, I'm rather pleased with your cooperation." Davey gave Randy a final, unsettling pat on the head. "But I think you might need to extend your stay here by a couple of days. Sean, Lenny, tie this chap to a tree. Make sure he doesn't kick the bucket; we still need this gentleman to lead us to Tall Trees Plains. Oh, sh*t! These damn Lemoyne Raiders are truly operating on a massive scale!"

Just then, Mac, who had been enthusiastically rummaging through the wagons, let out a whoop. "Oh, sh*t! There's a whole wagon of intact rifles here, gentlemen! Oh, and it's all bullets! Dammit, this stuff is magnificent! Davey, I think Dutch will be absolutely over the moon if we bring these back!"

He lovingly caressed a brand-new bolt-action rifle from the wagon. On a nearby wagon, Lenny had just pried open a crate, his eyes wide. "Oh, this wagon has gunpowder and shotguns, Davey! I feel like we must have poked the bear; they're definitely not letting these two wagons of goods go without a fight!"

"Oh, sh*t!" Davey cursed again, a vein throbbing in his temple. "Alright, let's get moving! Come on! We'll hide this wagon of goods and come back tonight to raid them again. Dammit, I want to see how many of these damn bastards there really are!"

Following Davey's furious instructions, the gang members hitched the wagons, loaded every valuable piece of ordnance from Shady Belle, and with Randy in tow, sped off towards the distant wilderness. These two wagons alone, considering the price of firearms and ammunition, were easily worth at least five thousand dollars, possibly more. Lingering here, they knew, would only lead to a swift and rather explosive encirclement.