Justice

Back at the Valentine Sheriff's office, Malloy, utterly oblivious to the recent tension, was practically swimming in self-congratulation.

"Hahahahaha, Jack!" he roared, sloshing his wine. "Quickly, pour me some more! Oh, sh*t! The high-end stuff! Yes, the one Mr. Van der Linde gave me!"

He guffawed, then, with a theatrical flourish, crumpled Dutch's wanted poster—the one with Dutch's infamous mugshot—and tossed it into the nearest trash can.

In the original timeline, Dutch and his gang always believed fleeing Blackwater meant anonymity. In reality, their wanted posters were plastered across the damned continent. Most states offered a measly three hundred dollars for top outlaws.

Arthur's bounty alone was five thousand, Dutch's a staggering fifteen thousand. News of their price tags had spread like wildfire, yet no one dared claim it. Malloy, on Dutch's third visit, when the sewing machines rolled in, had already known.

But what did it matter? It didn't stop Malloy from lining his pockets! He'd even wangled connections with the Saint Denis elite. And today, thanks to his chumminess with Dutch, a parade of fat cats buying VDL clothes had stopped by to ply him with gifts.

So what if Dutch Van der Linde, or rather, "Mr. Arthur Callahan," was a wanted criminal? Malloy wasn't fool enough to think he could take on that ferocious gang single-handedly.

"Gurgle…" The amber liquid, "high-end" indeed, trickled into Sheriff Malloy's glass, poured with almost religious reverence by Jack. Malloy chuckled, raising the glass to his nose, sniffing delicately.

"Ah, by God! As expected of high-end liquor! These upper-class gentry truly know how to live! Alright, Jack, you can have a glass too, but only a small one, you understand!" Seeing Jack's eyes widen with envious delight, Malloy magnanimously allowed him a sip.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Malloy! This is grand, truly grand!" Jack beamed, quickly pouring himself a measure and clinking glasses with his boss. "Cheers!"

Sheriff Malloy, just about to take a blissful gulp, when the station door burst open with a resounding "Bang!" The sudden intrusion startled him so badly that a good portion of his precious wine sloshed over the rim, dribbling down his chin.

Two men in impeccably tailored suits stood in the doorway, their presence a stark contrast to the station's usual disarray. Malloy's face, previously a mask of jovial contentment, instantly darkened. He slammed his glass down.

"Gentlemen, may I inquire as to your business?" he asked, his voice now dangerously low.

The thinner of the two, the one with the acned face and an unnerving confidence, stepped forward. "You're Malloy, right? Curtis Malloy? Sheriff of Valentine. I am Agent Milton, and this is Agent Ross. We are from the Pinkerton Detective Agency."

"That's me. What in blazes do you want?" Malloy's eyes narrowed, sensing the predatory intent radiating from the duo.

"Nothing, Sheriff Malloy," Milton purred, his voice dripping with condescension.

"Just observing a group of wanted criminals brazenly operating a clothing store in Valentine, using blood-stained American dollars to unscrupulously earn money, transforming themselves into 'upper-class individuals,' while you, Sheriff, are either blissfully unaware, or, more likely, in cahoots! Sheriff Malloy, pray tell, what do you say is wrong with that?"

Milton strode into the room, his every step amplifying the pressure on Malloy. But the Sheriff, shrewd as a fox, showed no outward sign of his inner tremor.

"I don't know what hogwash you're spouting," Malloy retorted, his voice steady. "If you've nothing but nonsense, I suggest you leave. Our police station isn't a playground for fools."

"Is that so, Sheriff Malloy?" Milton sneered, his gaze sweeping the room. His eyes landed on the yellowed, crumpled wanted poster in the trash can. With a contemptuous kick, he sent the bin tumbling.

"Dutch Van der Linde, I imagine you've seen him quite a few times, haven't you? Your very own police officers, Sheriff, are practically his doormats at the entrance of his clothing store." He gestured to the spilled wine.

"Oh, and let me see this 'high-end' liquor on your table. My goodness, this bottle alone would cost at least two families' yearly savings! Sheriff Malloy, what do you think? Or do you believe two families' wretched lives are worth less than a bottle of firewater?"

Malloy, like a seasoned actor, remained unnervingly calm.

"Mr. Milton, is it? Begging your pardon, but I know no 'Dutch Van der Linde.' We merely have a Mr. Arthur Callahan here, selling clothes. He is a respectable gentleman who provides countless workers a chance to survive. I find it hard to believe he's any 'wanted criminal.' Furthermore, you have no right to accuse me, Agent. In fact, you know the true, rotten nature of this society better than I do, don't you?"

Malloy's response, a thinly disguised attack on Milton's involvement with the affluent, was a harsh, personal insult. He was cleverly ridiculing Milton for partaking in the same "blood of dead men" that he criticized Dutch for.

Milton's face, already dark, now contorted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. He remembered Arthur's earlier barb: they were willing to act as toys for the rich! Indeed, they were, and so was this smug, conniving Sheriff. This scene felt like Arthur's renewed mockery, pushing Milton's temper to its breaking point.

Who the hell didn't know the sordid history of America's upper crust? Ten out of ten were bloody thieves, no different from Dutch Van der Linde, just laundered. And Sheriff Malloy, a provincial bumpkin, was using this very truth to mock him!

Damn it! Sheriff Malloy, it seemed, had more guts than brains. Of course, the main reason for his defiance was clear: he owed nothing to the Pinkertons. One was a private detective, the other a public official; there was no chain of command, no reason for fear.

"Alright, Sheriff Malloy," Milton snarled, his voice tight with suppressed fury. "Goodbye. I sincerely hope you won't find yourself swinging from a gallows for conspiracy!"

For the first time, Agent Milton felt truly defeated. However, he had accomplished his goal: he had uncovered the shocking scale of Dutch Van der Linde's involvement in Valentine.

Dutch's cunning progress had far surpassed what Milton had anticipated. With a grave expression, Milton understood that Dutch had transformed into an unstoppable and fearsome power.