Mister Morgan

As the grand carriage, practically gleaming with opulence, approached the throng gathered outside the VDL Clothing Store, a ripple went through the crowd. Murmurs escalated into hushed anticipation as they recognized the notorious Mr. Callahan and his entourage.

"Gentlemen, ladies, pray make way for our esteemed Mr. Callahan!" Sheriff Malloy, still perched atop his horse, his chest puffed out like a proud rooster, belted out, his voice dripping with unabashed sycophancy. He swept his arm grandly, urging the eager spectators to part, lest they disrupt the flow of commerce or, heaven forbid, Dutch's perfectly orchestrated entrance.

Like a biblical sea, the crowd automatically parted, forming a wide, respectful corridor for the carriage. Townsfolk of Valentine, recognizing Dutch, lined the newly formed path, their faces a mixture of awe and hopeful deference.

"Respected Mr. Callahan!"

"Mr. Callahan, greetings! It brightens my very day to see your handsome face!"

"Oh, Mr. Callahan, are you still hiring? I'm quite the hand with a needle and thread!" (This last one from a surprisingly hopeful looking man with a rather unfortunate mustache.)

A cacophony of greetings, each more obsequious than the last, rained down from both sides of the street. In the presence of a true gentleman of fortune like Dutch, even strangers weren't stingy with their flattery. Everyone, known or unknown, showered him with respect, hoping to catch his eye, perhaps snag a glimmer of opportunity.

And Dutch, a master of populist charm, was never one to disappoint. "Hello, gentlemen, ladies, it's a pleasure to see you all!" he boomed, a dazzling smile fixed on his face as he waved from the carriage. Arthur, beside him, felt a sudden, awkward compulsion to join in.

"Oh, um, well, hello there…" Arthur mumbled, giving a stiff, almost robotic wave, feeling about as comfortable as a skunk at a garden party. He muttered under his breath, "Damn it, this rich man's life ain't for everyone, I tell ya!"

Amidst the chorus of fawning greetings and Dutch's enthusiastic responses, the opulent carriage finally rolled to a majestic halt directly in front of the clothing store's entrance. There, poised like Grecian statues, stood three exquisitely dressed young women, a trio of the twelve beauties recruited in the last batch. They lived and breathed VDL, enjoying two days off a month to visit their families – a truly revolutionary concept for the working class.

Sheriff Malloy dismounted his horse with the flourish of a seasoned cavalryman. Under his direct command, ten police officers, ramrod straight and looking distinctly uncomfortable in their new uniforms, formed a rigid honor guard on either side of the store's entrance, attempting to maintain an air of solemn order. Frankly, if they weren't wearing badges, you'd think they were Dutch's personal legion of hired guns. Malloy's desire to perform, to dazzle and impress the councilwomen and their daughters, was clearly at an unprecedented, almost alarming, high.

"Alright, dear ladies, you may descend! Our ribbon-cutting ceremony is about to officially commence!" Dutch's booming voice rang out, filling the air with the promise of commerce and celebration. Arthur, enduring the oppressive weight of a hundred curious stares, squirmed with discomfort. He finally managed to wriggle his way through the crowd, seeking refuge in a quiet, shadowy corner behind the store. There, leaning against the rough wooden wall, he let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief.

"Damn it," he grumbled to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. "When did other people's damn gazes start botherin' me so much? Oh, if this is what rich life is, I'm halfway to robbing banks again. At least when I'm holding up a bank, I don't gotta fake a damn smile!" He listened to Dutch's impassioned, honey-laced voice floating from the front of the store. "Sigh, Dutch is starting his old routine again." A few more sentences drifted back, and Arthur felt his mind swimming in Dutch's usual syrupy rhetoric.

Having been subjected to Dutch's manipulative pronouncements for so long, Arthur had developed a remarkably high resistance to his leader's charming brand of gaslighting. But the higher his resistance, the more profoundly he realized just how formidable Dutch truly was.

"Oh, he always holds the damn upper hand, and things always unfold just as he intends," Arthur muttered, pulling out his battered diary and a cigarette. He scribbled furiously, then lit the cigarette, a plume of smoke curling from his lips. "I swear, I'm starting to suspect Dutch might actually be be saint, or perhaps the son of God himself." The smoke drifted lazily upwards, but then, a sudden shadow fell over his diary, and Arthur's eyes narrowed, instantly snapping from relaxed introspection to a flicker of primal danger.

A cold, precise voice cut through the air directly in front of him. "Such a good young man, yet in such a chaotic and turbulent environment…"

Arthur's eyes, now like chips of flint, were fixed. He slowly raised his head. Two men in impeccably tailored suits and ties stood before him, as if conjured from thin air. The slightly thinner one, his face marred by a smattering of acne, led the charge, both men staring at Arthur with an unsettling intensity. The man a step behind held a short-range shotgun, casually but undeniably, pointed directly at Arthur's chest.

"Arthur, right? Arthur Morgan?"

Agent Milton, his gaze sweeping from Arthur to the bustling shop, a hint of genuine disbelief in his eyes, felt a sudden surge of something akin to envy. Damn it, Dutch! A month! In a month, you've gone and become a man above others?

Arthur's hand subtly lowered, his heart sinking like a stone. He might not know these two particular vultures by name, but he'd instantly pegged their identity. Pinkerton Detectives! Damn those bone-eating maggots, always clinging on relentlessly!

Seeing Arthur's barely perceptible movement, the shotgun in Agent Milton's hand twitched, a fractional, yet incredibly menacing adjustment, forcing Arthur to slowly move his hand away from his side. He looked at Milton, his expression already grave. "Who in blazes are you?"

"Yes, Arthur Morgan! Van der Linde's most trusted partner… It's truly difficult to believe Van der Linde could still escape after taking three bullets to the gut." Agent Milton spoke with an almost unnerving calm, completely devoid of any apparent sense of danger, as if confident Arthur wouldn't dare act. He even turned to his partner, Agent Ross, saying, "You've seen the file, Ross. A classic case: a street orphan seduced by that eloquent madman, growing up to become a depraved murderer."

Agent Ross nodded, then casually lowered the shotgun, resting it on his shoulder. Evidently, their initial display was merely a warning.

Milton turned back to Arthur, a chilling glint in his eye. "I am Agent Milton, and this is Agent Ross. We are from the Pinkerton Detective Agency, loyal, I assure you, to the United States Government." He took a step closer, a predatory smile playing on his lips. "We finally meet. And rest assured, Mr. Morgan, we know a great deal about you."

"Is that so?" Arthur's gaze flickered subtly behind them, wondering if Dutch or Hosea had somehow caught wind of their uninvited guests.

Milton nodded, hands on his hips, and let out a theatrical sigh. "You're a wanted man, Mr. Morgan. Your bounty alone, a tidy sum of five thousand dollars."

"Five thousand dollars? Damn it, can I just turn myself in then?" Arthur played dumb, tapping the wooden wall behind him with feigned nonchalance, hoping to somehow alert Dutch inside, trigger a swift, panicked retreat.

But then, Dutch's earlier words echoed in his mind: 'Arthur, as long as we don't make a mistake here, those Pinkerton Detectives have no right to arrest us. And here, you, my boy, are still Mr. Morgan!'

A surge of defiant courage, fueled by Dutch's words, coursed through him. Arthur straightened his back, a hint of genuine pride entering his voice. "Well, Mr. Milton, as far as I know, you don't possess the jurisdiction to enforce laws across state lines. So, why don't you offer a proper greeting to Mr. Morgan? Of course, I'll forgive your deplorable etiquette this time, but next time, remember to say: 'Good day, Mr. Morgan' when you see me. That's basic etiquette for upper-class gentlemen, wouldn't you agree?"

"Ah!" Agent Milton's face flushed a deep, angry red. He looked as if he'd swallowed a particularly stubborn hairball. Arthur's words, delivered with a smug, almost aristocratic sneer, were infuriatingly correct.

The Pinkertons did not have jurisdiction here; otherwise, they'd have descended with a small army. And yes, Arthur's current identity was indeed "Mr. Morgan," because, by God, he had, with Dutch's silver tongue, somehow squeezed himself into the ranks of the damned gentry!

The casual, almost mocking expression vanished from Agent Milton's face, replaced by a dark, cold fury. "Mr. Morgan?" he sneered, the name dripping with disdain.

"You fantasize about squeezing into high society and escaping the law's relentless pursuit with a mere hundred and fifty thousand dollars stained with blood? Mr. Morgan, I believe it's time for your high society dream to end."

"You just enjoy being lapdogs for high society, don't you?" Arthur shot back, a dangerous glint in his eye.

"What I enjoy is this society, including its flaws! You lot worship savagery, and by God, you will ultimately perish in a savage way! No matter how perfectly you're wrapped in silk and lies, the disguise will always be stripped away! Mr. Morgan, that hundred and fifty thousand dollars, stained with countless blood and souls, may temporarily buy you entry into high society, but it will also become the curse of your demise! Goodbye, Mr. Morgan."

Agent Milton, clearly enraged by Arthur's cutting, albeit truthful, retort about being a toy for the rich, nevertheless maintained a chilling politeness, even offering a parting farewell.

"Goodbye!" Arthur watched their retreating figures, the initial knot of worry in his stomach unraveling. Dutch was right again; the damned Pinkerton Detectives were utterly helpless, at least for now.