Trudging

The gilded cage on wheels, Dutch's luxurious carriage, lumbered through Valentine, each jolt a sharp reminder of the town's damned, muddy, and utterly unforgiving roads. Inside, the air hung heavy with the stench of cattle and sheep, a pungent perfume that clashed with the ladies' delicate sensibilities.

Drunkards stumbled, laborers snuck illicit breaks, and beggars, like persistent flies, were everywhere. The very ground, a vile concoction of mud and horse dung, exhaled an unpleasant, gut-wrenching odor. This, by God, was the unvarnished West, a far cry from the sanitized, rose-tinted scenes painted in dime novels.

Yet, astonishingly, these unholy sights and smells, common even in the sprawling chaos of Saint Denis, caused no genuine distress for the three ladies. Instead, they found a perverse novelty in the rustic squalor.

Ms. Dorothea, however, couldn't tear her gaze from the women lining the streets. These were Valentine's daughters, mostly from families so poor their very souls seemed threadbare. Their clothes hung on them like sacks, their eyes, dulled by hardship, held no spark of joy, just a resigned numbness. They scurried through the muck, heads bowed, as if expecting trouble from every swaggering brute.

Outside the saloons, shabby figures huddled; some emerged with men, others, clutching their bellies, disappeared back into the shadows, their faces devoid of hope, etched with the chilling apathy of enduring misery. They walked with a conscious humility, a self-effacing slouch, daring not to meet the gaze of anyone. But as Dutch's opulent carriage glided past, their eyes would flick up, a complex cocktail of fear and raw envy gleaming as they glimpsed the noblewomen within.

Their eyes, God help them, were a damnably complex tapestry: numbness interwoven with a trembling hint of nervousness, timid longing, and a deep, aching yearning. Perhaps, in the deepest recesses of their weary hearts, they harbored a thousand desperate dreams of one day riding in such a carriage, of becoming a lady of means, free from the grinding tyranny of the next meal.

But reality, that cruel mistress, forced them to peddle their bodies, a desperate bid to keep their families from starving. The sheer glut of male labor meant women had no other damn competitive edge.

Ms. Dorothea's gaze swept over their gaunt faces, their weary bodies. The very same scenes she witnessed daily in Saint Denis, for some inexplicable reason, struck her with a brutal, unsettling force here. Perhaps it was the sheer abundance of wealthy women in Saint Denis that offered a buffer, a sense of shared experience. Here, in Valentine, her kind were anomalies, isolated islands of privilege.

As Ms. Dorothea watched, a profound silence descended upon her, her expression deepening into somber contemplation. This wasn't some modern "girl help girl" sentiment; it was a visceral discomfort. The grinding poverty of these women, their very existence, was, to her pampered sensibilities, obstructing her view of the world.

With a decisive Swish! Ms. Dorothea reached out and yanked shut the curtain on her side of the carriage, banishing the unsettling tableau from her sight.

Meanwhile, Dutch, who was personally handling the reins upfront, showed no sign of disquiet. He and his gang were long accustomed to the brutal realities of the lower strata.

Hell, the Van der Linde Gang had once been hailed as modern-day Robin Hoods, robbing from the fat cats to feed the hungry.

Under Dutch's charismatic spell, they didn't just liberate coin; they provided succor to orphans, a profound act that explained why steadfast souls like Arthur clung to him. They were a band of redeemers, seeking salvation not just for themselves, but for others too, a desperate attempt to soothe their own confused, restless hearts.

As the carriage pressed on, the "VDL" Clothing Store in Valentine loomed into view, a beacon of refined commerce amidst the chaos. As Dutch's burgeoning empire, the Valentine store had been well and truly "advertised," meaning a frenzied throng of women had already descended upon its entrance.

A small, elite faction of these women had traveled all the way from Saint Denis, ravenous for the latest fashions. Dutch's clothing empire had become the talk of Saint Denis, and with its novel styles, his garments were even starting to ripple outwards, earning a reputation in the two surrounding states.

These past few days, whether in Strawberry, Rhodes, or the bustling streets of Saint Denis, his stores had been besieged by eager crowds, men and women alike. Wealthy ladies and wives from distant states embarked on pilgrimages solely to acquire his designs, some even boasting exclusive memberships.

Rumor had it that a social hierarchy, as rigid as a damn military parade, had emerged in Saint Denis, particularly within the middle and lower-tier groups of wives and ladies. They viewed membership in Dutch's clothing store as a sacred key to high society.

Only by flashing a VDL membership card, they believed, could one truly prove their aristocratic bona fides. After all, who but the truly wealthy could afford to drop a thousand dollars on a single shopping spree?

Some of their social gatherings even demanded a VDL membership for entry—a brilliant, Machiavellian stroke that perfectly aligned with Dutch's original, devilish scheme. His very purpose in creating these memberships was to forge an unshakeable status hierarchy among the ladies and the well-heeled of Saint Denis, thereby fueling a consumption frenzy at his store. Every strategy, every design, every carefully orchestrated whisper, was crafted to construct this very hierarchy.

The upper crust flaunted their exclusive VDL branded finery, the upper-middle class yearned to possess just one branded item to trumpet their family's burgeoning prominence, and the lower-middle class, in a frantic display of social climbing, recharged their accounts with desperate abandon, striving for membership status.

This was the intricate, consumptive pyramid Dutch had so cunningly erected. And it had, undoubtedly, proven a resounding success, its tendrils even now reaching into neighboring states. The name "VDL" Clothing Store had firmly cemented its place in the annals of Western fame.

Naturally, the meteoric rise of Dutch's clothing store, with its parade of novel styles, had attracted its fair share of envious eyes and scheming minds. Imitation VDL designs were already popping up in Saint Denis, like weeds in a carefully manicured garden.

However, Dutch's ironclad brand effect, coupled with his shrewd pricing, meant these cheap imitations couldn't yet steal his market share, forced instead to peddle their wares in other states. Moreover, a shadowy cadre of merchants was buying Dutch's clothing in bulk, hauling it to other states for inflated resale, carving out a tidy profit from his genius.

This, ironically, explained why some of those high-society ladies were willing to endure the bone-jarring train journey from Saint Denis.

Dutch, ever the pragmatist, harbored no grand counter-measures or indignant rants against these parasites. Such petty piracy was simply the damned cost of doing business, impossible to control given the vast, teeming masses involved.

Only a fortress of brand effect could hope to mitigate the damage. For a similar price, why would a discerning customer choose a shoddy knock-off over authentic VDL finery?

And that, my friends, was the true genius of Dutch's hierarchy: it was all about forging an unassailable brand reputation. "You're wearing a fake, how embarrassing!" "Did you pick that up at some flea market? It lacks the distinctive craftsmanship of 'VDL' Clothing Store! Hahahaha…" Such cruel, derisive whispers, such cutting disdain, were, in Dutch's estimation, the only truly effective methods for safeguarding authenticity.