Pinkertons

Arthur watched Agent Milton and Ross ride away, a bitter taste in his mouth. He snarled, flicking his cigarette butt to the ground and grinding it under his heel with a vicious twist.

Then, a deep, weary sigh escaped him. "Ah, Dutch," he mumbled, pulling his boot back. "Told ya, didn't I? Those damned bastards ain't never gonna give up."

He turned, the vibrant chaos of the clothing store now an unwelcome cacophony. His earlier mood, a bizarre blend of relief at escaping the public eye and awkwardness at being caught in it, had curdled into a heavy, suffocating dread.

Their lives, for as long as he could remember, had been a perpetual flight, a relentless chase by every lawman and Pinkerton worth his salt. But before, it had felt... distant. A faint, nagging worry. They'd always thought a simple change of scenery would throw off the hounds, grant them peace.

Milton's sudden appearance, however, had ignited a cold, hard spark of crisis in his gut. They weren't just wanted; they were hunted. Someone out there remembered every single transgression, every bloody penny, and they were waiting, watching, itching for an opportunity. This feeling of being targeted, of being a constant mark, was goddamned unpleasant.

Arthur trudged slowly towards the front of the store, his boots heavy. He needed to tell Dutch. Dutch was his rock, the unshakeable backbone of the Van der Linde Gang. Only when Dutch, with his mesmerizing pronouncements, declared, "Don't be afraid," would Arthur truly shed his fear.

While Arthur had been locked in that tense standoff, the ribbon-cutting ceremony had concluded with all the expected pomp and circumstance. Inside, the store was a maelstrom of flailing arms and desperate shoppers, a testament to Dutch's burgeoning empire. Dutch and Hosea, smoking cigars, surveyed the bustling scene, looking like proud parents at a particularly successful school play. Outside, five police officers, stiff as planks, patrolled like sentinels, maintaining an illusion of order amidst the frenzy.

Meanwhile, Ms. Dorothea, a woman with a penchant for proselytizing, hadn't wasted a moment. Under the ingenious guise of offering "free coffee and snacks," she'd herded a motley crew of impoverished women, and even a few painted ladies from the saloons, into a cramped lounge behind the store's main wall. There, she was passionately lecturing on the virtues of feminism, desperately attempting to ignite a fire for suffrage in their weary souls. Alas, her lecture was as dry as a desert bone, and she clearly hadn't a clue what these women truly yearned for. Her efforts, predictably, had virtually no effect, the free refreshments being the sole draw.

"Hosea," Dutch began, his voice a low rumble, cutting through the din, "our clothing store needs more female hands and new machines. But first, we need to erect more houses, prepare for our next recruitment drive. So, old friend, this falls to you. Our clothes are flying off the shelves, and we'll soon be signing franchise agreements with a few interested gentlemen."

Dutch's words, laced with the promise of expansion, drifted to Arthur. Franchising, a concept not entirely alien to the 19th century, was about to get the "Dutch Van der Linde" treatment – a more advanced, centralized model with direct factory shipments and branch stores. While this wasn't exactly ideal for the slow pace of current transportation, Dutch's motives went deeper. He wasn't just chasing quick cash; he was building an empire to provide more opportunities for the downtrodden, the forgotten souls of the West.

He was Dutch, he would become the American people's sun, their guiding light, their only sun! All who toiled for him would offer him unwavering support, and all who benefited from his "welfare conditions" would march for him until their dying breath. Loyalty! That was the ultimate prize in the hearts of the common folk. And those damned capitalists? They were his best, and completely free, positive publicity!

"Alright, Dutch, so this time it's still five large sheds and ten houses?" Hosea, oblivious to the grand Machiavellian machinations churning in Dutch's mind, readily agreed. Hell, he was now "Mr. Marston" to the public, thanks to Dutch's brilliant schemes. He was Dutch's staunchest, most devoted supporter, a testament to his friend's genius.

"No, Hosea, this time we need a few more houses. Five large sheds, as usual, and about a hundred more sewing machines should suffice for the surrounding states. But the houses… we need more houses. Those Indians I persuaded in Saint Denis are likely to arrive any day now." Dutch nodded, his mind drifting to Rains Fall and Flying Eagle, his two most recent recruits from the native tribes.

The Van der Linde Gang, for all their grand ambitions, was still woefully understaffed. Blocking Saint Denis alone had stretched them thin, leaving countless simultaneous tasks undone. Indians, naturally antagonistic towards the US Government and capitalists, were free talent, practically aligned with their cause. Dutch was practically pining for them.

Just then, Arthur reached Dutch, his face grim. "Hey, Dutch," he whispered, a tremor in his voice, "I just saw two men, Dutch. They called themselves Milton and Ross, from the Pinkerton Detective! They were right behind our clothing store!"

Hosea, overhearing, snapped his head around, his face instantly etched with worry. "Damn it, the Pinkertons? Oh, Dutch, I've got a bad feeling. They know about us. It seems they truly are specifically hunting us down!" Hosea's heart tightened. Even knowing the Pinkertons lacked true law enforcement power, the sheer, relentless nature of their pursuit chilled him.

Dutch, however, merely raised an eyebrow, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. "Alright, Arthur, don't panic, child," he chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. "The Pinkerton Detective is now a tiger with its teeth pulled. What good would it do for them to come over? Didn't you just say a few words, and they scurried away like frightened mice?"