Courage

The damned road from Saint Denis to Rhodes was a treacherous ribbon of mud, growing more desolate, more untamed, the closer one got to the cursed town of Rhodes.

Alligators, bloated and ancient, were common as flies, their scaly forms basking boldly across the very path. Snakes, venomous and swift, and even ancient, slow-witted turtles dared to cross the road, a testament to the untamed ferocity of this blighted wilderness.

The trees lining this wilderness trail were thick, lush, and aggressively green, their branches drooping with dense foliage. Various aquatic plants, their stalks as tall as a man, grew in unruly clumps. Though not impenetrable, they offered perfect concealment for a cunning ambush.

In the damn game, the distance between Rhodes and Saint Denis seems a casual hop, skip, and a jump, but in reality, it was a full afternoon's ride on horseback. And that journey meant passing through places so remote, so utterly forgotten by God, that an ordinary soul wouldn't dare traverse them alone. It was no different from actively seeking one's own damn demise. Thus, there was precisely zero need to worry about any unwanted witnesses.

"Clip-clop, clip-clop…"

Hoofbeats, a faint, rhythmic drumbeat, echoed in the distance. Before long, several horses, thundering at a breakneck pace, and a single, heavy carriage, galloped into view.

"This is the spot." Davey dismounted from his horse with a practiced ease, his eyes scanning the murky landscape. "The aquatic plants and trees here offer prime concealment, and this place is remote enough, with a good distance from Saint Denis, making it ideal for an ambush." He then fired two warning shots into the swamp, the sharp cracks cutting through the humid air, sending startled alligators slithering back into the murky depths.

The carriage trailing behind him was laden with a deadly cargo: a veritable arsenal of bombs that Mr. Randy had meticulously crafted over the past few days, along with the menacing silhouette of a Maxim gun. Intercepting Signor Bronte's men in this desolate wilderness was a treacherous undertaking, even for these seasoned sharpshooters. Bronte, after all, commanded legions. Hence, the judicious application of Randy's custom-made explosives and the relentless, mechanical fury of the Maxim gun.

Mac, Bill, John, Lenny, and Sean, all dismounted, their faces grimly determined, gathering around Davey like a pack of lean, hungry wolves.

"Lenny, roughly how many men do they have?" Davey asked, his voice low, his eyes fixed on Lenny's face as he unhooked a satchel of bombs from his saddlebag. These were Randy's latest creations, and there were enough to truly test their destructive power.

"I don't know the exact number, Davey," Lenny replied, accepting a bomb and deftly securing it to his waist. His young face, usually so shy and kind, was now etched with a steely resolve, betraying no hesitation. "But when I left, I saw a damn lot of people gathering there. I reckon there must be at least fifty or more."

John patted his horse's rump, then took the bomb handed to him. "Fifty? Sh*t! I feel that's underestimating Signor Bronte a bit. His subordinates are all over Saint Denis; it probably wouldn't be a big problem for him to gather five hundred people."

What John said wasn't hyperbole; in fact, he was being modest. As the undisputed gang boss of Saint Denis, the hoodlums, thugs, and assorted ruffians working for or associated with Signor Bronte numbered far, far more than five hundred.

Bronte was able to summon waves upon waves of cannon fodder. However, the number of his true confidants, the men who would strictly follow his orders to the bitter end, was considerably smaller. As for those who possessed both a man and a horse – the ultimate sign of a truly capable bandit – it would be a miracle if Bronte could mobilize two hundred at once.

In the wild, unforgiving West, a "one-man, one-horse" setup was a luxury, a symbol of high-end capability. The O'Driscoll Gang, for all their vast numbers, couldn't possibly mount every single member. A single horse, with its upkeep and feed, was often more valuable than a human life. This hidden truth, rarely depicted in the game, was a brutal reality that needed careful consideration.

(During World War I, a mere 800 cavalry could charge and rout 3000 Turkish troops; a single man and a single horse was an immense test of financial resources. If Bronte truly possessed two hundred such figures, he could, by God, do whatever he pleased in Saint Denis. If you doubt it, play some good ol' Mount and Blade; the sight of two hundred cavalry charging is simply awe-inspiring.)

So, if Bronte's total deployment totaled around one hundred men, that would be the absolute maximum. And how long would it take Davey, Mac, and John, these veritable gunslinging gods, to eliminate one hundred men? Six shots per second might be an exaggeration for ordinary folk, but for these sharpshooters, it was merely effortless proficiency.

Single-action revolvers extend shooting time, while double-action revolvers are lightning fast. Moreover, they had the terrifying power of a Maxim gun, making things even easier to deal with.

"Alright, then let's assume there are more, just to be safe." Davey's face was grim. "John, Sean, Bill, the three of you go set up the bombs. Bury them along both sides of this road, make the buried section as long as possible, and try to make the explosion range include Signor Bronte's men. That way, our risk might be a little smaller."

He handed John the detonator for the remote-controlled bombs, a simple device of wires and a plunger. "Also, Mac, Lenny, you two find a place to hide the Maxim gun from the carriage."

The Van der Linde Gang members, surprisingly adept with explosives, found this work almost second nature. Time bled into the humid afternoon. To ensure that every single one of Signor Bronte's men would be blown sky-high, they buried an incredibly long, continuous stretch of bombs. It was a stroke of luck that they had seized the Lemoyne Raiders' massive stash of explosives during their recent skirmishes, otherwise, this audacious plan would have been a non-starter.

To ensure foolproof detonation, they devised a cunning system: two connecting lines. John waited at the rear, ready to trigger the back bombs once the entire force was within range, while Sean stood at the front, prepared to detonate the leading explosives once the first riders reached the very forefront of their trap.

They even thoughtfully covered the bombs with dead leaves and marsh weeds, camouflaging them perfectly. Then, the group slipped into the dense bushes, melting into the shadows, quietly waiting for Signor Bronte's oblivious men to ride into their fiery embrace.

Time, the cruelest of masters, dragged on. It took a considerable amount of time for Signor Martteli's men and Francisco's reinforcements to fully gather. It wasn't until the encroaching dusk that the faint, rhythmic tremor of hooves on the road finally echoed in the distance, growing steadily louder.

"F*ck!" Mac cursed softly, his face contorted in a mask of anticipation. "How many men did Signor Bronte gather? I feel like the goddamn ground is shaking!" He pulled on his mask, a grim silhouette in the dimming light, then forcefully, almost lovingly, braced the Maxim gun in his hands.

Lenny sat perched on the carriage, his youthful face strained, his hand hovering over the bomb detonator. The moment the bombs exploded, he would immediately whip the horses forward, allowing Mac to unleash a terrifying hail of lead from the Maxim gun, suppressing their fire and mowing down every single soul!

And in the dense, suffocating bushes, Davey, John, and the others, their faces grim beneath their masks, had already readied their firearms and additional explosives, waiting for the precise, agonizing moment to unleash their fury.

As everyone waited, quiet as the grave, the sound of hooves grew closer, closer still. At this very moment, Martelli and Francisco, leading a grand total of seventy-five men, rode confidently, utterly unaware, leading their vast, doomed group along this very road.

"Francisco," Martelli murmured uneasily, his gaze darting nervously at Francisco, who rode abreast of him on another horse, "I still think we need to be careful. If it really is the Van der Linde Gang, all of us might be wiped out!" Martelli's voice was a barely controlled whisper of fear.

Ever since witnessing the chilling scene where three members of the Van der Linde Gang had systematically butchered nearly fifty Lemoyne Raiders, the Van der Linde Gang had become a profound, crippling psychological shadow for Martelli.

Even as Signor Bronte's top enforcer, even though he had routinely led gang fights and assassinations for his boss, even though he himself might have forty or fifty notches on his belt, his heart was gripped by an incredible, suffocating fear. He feared the Van der Linde Gang, a group of absolute terrorists who killed as easily as drinking water.

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Martelli: "Hahaha, I am the undisputed strongest in Saint Denis! I've personally killed fifty-five people!"

Arthur: "Oh, that's not bad, Martelli. What about yesterday?"