Common Sense

Signor Bronte, in his gilded cage of opulence, had indeed guessed correctly; these shadowy figures were all from the damned Van der Linde Gang. However, he was dead wrong on one crucial point: these bastards weren't blocking the road to rob, not in the usual sense. They were simply... blocking the road.

They were specifically setting up an impromptu barricade directly in the path of Signor Bronte's prized Rhodes families. A subtle, yet chilling, escalation.

As Signor Martelli began gathering his grim-faced men, Lenny, ever the phantom, was already outside Bronte's mansion, disguised as a casual passerby. He saw everything with the keen eyes of a hawk. A flicker of movement, the subtle exchange of glances, the gathering of armed brutes – he absorbed it all. Then, without a sound, he melted into the shadows, only to re-emerge on horseback, galloping away towards the outskirts of Saint Denis like a bat out of hell.

Meanwhile, back at the crumbling grandeur of Shady Belle, Davey and the others were in the main hall on the first floor, their faces grim, their hands busy with a meticulous, almost reverent, task: cleaning their firearms. After retaking Shady Belle a staggering three times, the Lemoyne Raiders, whether wiped out or simply paralyzed by fear, had finally ceased their relentless assaults. Because of this, Davey and his crew had fully settled into the mansion, a temporary bastion in the swampy wilderness.

"Hurry up, Mr. Randy, you won't get fifty dollars a month with that speed!" Mac drawled, leaning lazily against the doorway, a smirk playing on his lips. He watched Randy, who sat hunched over a table in the center of the hall, meticulously filling gunpowder. Randy Clark, the very man they had mercifully spared during their last skirmish. He was, indeed, a gunpowder man, a veritable bomb maker. He'd plied his trade filling bombs for some nefarious arms company, his expertise greatly valued by the Lemoyne Raiders. And now, by the capricious whims of fate, he had survived under the very muzzles of the Van der Linde Gang, all thanks to his peculiar craft.

"Oh, sir, gunpowder cannot be filled too quickly!" Randy whimpered, his voice laced with genuine fear. "Too fast might cause friction, leading to fire and explosion!" His movements were agonizingly slow, meticulously cautious, making Mac's brow furrow in impatient frustration.

"Oh, sh*t! Davey!" Mac erupted, twirling his revolver with a flourish. "I think we should just kill him! Damn it, even Bill fills faster than you, you slowpoke!" He reached for a cigarette, but catching sight of the room, now practically brimming with exposed gunpowder, he hastily stuffed the cigarette back into his pocket, a flicker of self-preservation in his wild eyes.

"Enough, Mac!" Davey's voice, calm and authoritative, cut through Mac's bluster. "Don't interfere with Mr. Randy's work! Dutch has already said that all kinds of talents have their own value, and Mr. Randy is no different!" Davey knew his brother was just rattling Randy's cage, not genuinely plotting his demise.

Dutch had, after all, set a shining example: they were chivalrous heroes, not indiscriminate bandits. If Mr. Randy's past wasn't a direct threat, they had no reason to extinguish his life. Davey had even offered the man a princely sum of fifty dollars a month to fill bombs for the Van der Linde Gang. This was talent, the kind of ingenious, specialized talent Dutch adored above all else.

Mac, surprisingly, shut his mouth. He and John, now utterly bored, watched Mr. Randy, a study in cautious diligence, continue his work. It wasn't long, however, before Mac's restless tongue got the better of him again.

"Oh, Mr. Randy, the structure of this bomb is truly peculiar. Why, pray tell, do you have to add these small stones? And the structure of your bomb doesn't seem to be a proper one! My goodness, Mr. Randy, you don't have another peculiar hobby like Bill's, do you?" Mac's mouth, as always, was a loose cannon, prone to mockery.

From outside the door, Bill, who had been enjoying a quiet smoke, roared, "Sh*t, Mac! If you want to try it, I'd be happy to let your mouth have a taste!"

John burst into laughter, while Mr. Randy, still meticulously filling his bomb, explained, his voice laced with the cautious pride of an inventor, "Sir, this is one of my humble researches. I discovered that when a bomb detonates, it can propel small fragments of earth and stone. So, I pondered whether I could attach small stones to its exterior. That way, upon explosion, they would be blown outwards, scattering onto surrounding individuals, causing secondary damage. If you dislike it, sir, I can simply remove them."

Hearing his explanation, Davey's eyes instantly brightened. He swiftly moved to stop him. "No, Mr. Randy, do not remove them! Oh, I believe these small stones might truly be invaluable! And you, Mr. Randy, I think Dutch will undoubtedly be utterly delighted with you, for you possess his most cherished quality: innovative spirit!"

Davey picked up a bomb Randy had already prepared, examining its crude but ingenious structure. Compared to the standard detonators of the era, this "innovation" was deceptively simple: a mere layer of paper-wrapped small stones. But Davey was thrilled, convinced that Mr. Randy was precisely the kind of mad scientist Dutch adored.

The few men in the room chatted and laughed, the tension momentarily forgotten. About half an hour later, the rhythmic thud of approaching horses echoed outside Shady Belle. Immediately after, Lenny's voice, sharp and urgent, cut through the air.

"Davey! Mac! Bill! John! I just saw Signor Bronte's men gathering! It seems they're about to ride out!"

As his voice rang out, Mac, who had been chafing with boredom, sprang to his feet, a wild, eager grin splitting his face. "Oh, sh*t! Damn Bronte, he's finally out! Davey, John, hurry, hurry! Our mission is about to begin!" He practically bounced out the door.

Davey and John stood up. Davey looked at Mr. Randy, whose head had snapped up, his face clearly registering the sounds. Davey threw him a small pouch of coins. "Mr. Randy, whether you believe it or not, we are sincerely hiring you to work for us. This is a thirty-dollar advance payment, sir. I hope you will stay, truly stay." He turned to John. "John, take these explosives Mr. Randy filled. We'll go test their power first."

With that, Davey and John strode out, joining Javier, who had already appeared, leading his horse, ready for action. They had already transported the bulk of the stolen guns and ammunition to Valentine by train. Now, only gunpowder and Mr. Randy remained in the hall. There was no need to assign someone to stay behind. Most importantly, Davey wanted to emulate Dutch's unique method of winning over loyalty. And clearly, he was getting a feel for it.

"Hya!" As the thud of hooves faded into the swampy distance, Mr. Randy's previously startled expression slowly morphed into one of deep contemplation. He stared at the thirty dollars gleaming on the table, then his gaze swept around the empty, gunpowder-filled hall. He recalled the events of the past few days, the unexpected mercy, the generous offer. A profound hesitation settled over him. Finally, with a decisive gesture, he reached out and snatched the thirty dollars. He then stood up, walked to the main door.

"Creak!"

Mr. Randy slowly, carefully, closed the heavy door of Shady Belle, the click echoing in the sudden silence. He then returned to his table, his expression resolute, and began, once more, to meticulously fill the explosives.

Clearly, Davey, perhaps without even fully understanding it, had successfully employed Dutch's uncanny methods to win over Mr. Randy, to instill in him a nascent, yet undeniable, trust.

"Very good!" Davey, now hidden behind a shattered window of Shady Belle, observing the distant road through the scope of his sniper rifle, nodded with deep satisfaction. He finally allowed himself to relax, then swung onto his horse, galloping off in the direction the gang members had just taken, ready for the explosive confrontation ahead.