Rednecks

Signor Bronte, the self-proclaimed King of Saint Denis, poured a glass of ruby-red wine from the decanter on the table. He gently picked up the goblet, its polished surface reflecting the flickering candlelight, and brought it to his lips, taking a small, contemplative sip. His expression, now serene, revealed a mind deep in calculated thought.

Fighting the Van der Linde Gang outside the city was, on the face of it, a strategically disastrous decision. The Van der Linde Gang, for all their bravado, were small in number, elusive, and adept at melting into the shadows. A team of seventy-five of his best men, all cavalry, ambushed and annihilated by a handful of them?

Sending more men into that wilderness now would, logically, be nothing short of sending them to their deaths at the hands of those bloody cowboys. Logically, Signor Bronte was not that foolish. The teeming, labyrinthine city of Saint Denis was his home turf, the very heart of their mafia's power. Fighting these crazy, unpredictable outlaws in the godforsaken wilderness was, quite simply, suicidal.

But Bronte had his reasons, dark and complex, for this seemingly irrational course of action.

Firstly, Signor Bronte could not be humiliated! The sacred Cosa Nostra family could not, would not, be humiliated! The Van der Linde Gang's audacious ambush was a devastating blow to his prestige, a mortal wound to his fearsome reputation. It had, with terrifying efficiency, directly shattered the ranks of his younger generation, causing his position within the intricate web of Saint Denis power to be fundamentally shaken.

Various areas that relied on these young, ambitious leaders were now plunged into chaos, their command structures utterly annihilated. The destruction of his younger generation meant he had lost more than half of his trustworthy, reliable personnel, leaving him with only an aging, stagnant guard. Years of decadent indulgence had left these older capos without any real fighting strength, their minds dulled, their loyalties beginning to fray.

Therefore, Signor Bronte's internal situation, for the foreseeable future, would be nothing short of dire. He couldn't find reliable men to execute his will, and his military strength had been brutally reduced. He was a tiger whose teeth and claws had been ruthlessly broken. And these damned rival families in Saint Denis were not to be trifled with. Upon hearing this news, they would surely begin to scheme, to circle like vultures, eager to carve up Signor Bronte's assets, to devour this now-toothless, clawless tiger.

So, Signor Bronte needed to project an image of unbridled strength, to unleash a thunderous, terrifying rage to deter any rash moves from those circling vultures. In fact, during this perilous period, he needed to be even more aggressive, actively provoking other families, instigating small, calculated frictions.

Perhaps many believed Signor Bronte needed to retreat, to swallow this bitter insult, and slowly, quietly, recover his strength. But the ruthless upper echelons of Saint Denis would never grant him such an opportunity. The moment one rival dared a probing move, a continuous stream of challengers would follow, eventually transforming into a ravenous pack of wolves run wild. So, whether for his sacred dignity or for his very survival, Signor Bronte needed to react with thunderous, uncompromising rage, utterly devoid of the slightest tremor of fear.

And secondly, this reason was even simpler, far more cynical. His main effective forces, his most loyal and capable men, had been almost entirely wiped out in this brutal wave. So, this external encirclement and suppression would certainly not utilize his remaining, precious strength. Instead, he would gather the teeming masses of common thugs and hooligans from Saint Denis, to serve as expendable cannon fodder.

At the same time, this grand display would powerfully demonstrate the sheer, unquantifiable extent of his influence, his ability to rally the city's underbelly. The men sent for this external encirclement were not his trusted subordinates, which served to both avoid the attrition of his truly effective forces and to display his powerful, flexing muscle to his enemies. This, then, was the real, chilling reason Signor Bronte chose to publicly ride out and encircle the Van der Linde Gang.

Signor Bronte set down the wine glass, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips, devoid of any genuine worry. In fact, his mind wasn't even truly focused on these immediate tactics. A flicker of something akin to amusement, a smug satisfaction, briefly crossed his face.

"Mr. Van der Linde, you are truly a good man." Bronte's voice was a low, satisfied purr. "With your unwitting help, I can both eliminate internal dissent and, simultaneously, seize the opportunity to expand my influence. This is truly a very satisfying outcome, indeed. And you, my dear Mr. Van der Linde, you are merely a lamb, ripe for the slaughter at any moment!"

Bronte picked up a cigar from the table and lit it, his movements slow, deliberate, utterly without worry. Mr. Dutch Van der Linde, he mused, still needed his existence, his "legitimacy" as the underground king, to maintain his own fragile charade. So, Dutch would not, could not, attack his own foundation, nor would he allow anyone else to attack his foundation. Therefore, Bronte did not need to fret too much about his immediate situation.

And he could use this opportunity to ruthlessly replace those rotten elements within his own organization, or those disloyal individuals secretly placed by rival families. He would shatter the tangled webs of interest that those damned old things had painstakingly woven over the years, and then, from the ashes, re-establish a new interest chain, completely and utterly under his absolute control.

In comparison, Dutch Van der Linde was not in such a fortuitous situation. Dutch Van der Linde's very identity, his outlaw status, was always his Achilles' heel. Thus, Bronte could fully utilize every available means to target Dutch: relentless encirclement, ubiquitous wanted posters, cunning sneak attacks, ruthless assassinations. As long as he meticulously guarded against Dutch's own signature sneak attacks, Bronte would be utterly invincible.

"Alright, Jennifer, are things packed? My dear." Bronte filtered out the deeper, more strategic thoughts swirling in his mind, focusing on the immediate, practical details.

"All packed, my dear." A strikingly beautiful woman emerged from a nearby room, pulling two large, exquisite suitcases with surprising ease. With a sweet, alluring smile, she stepped forward and gracefully embraced Bronte's neck.

"Very good, then let's go." Bronte kissed her, a brief, possessive peck on the mouth, then rose, a triumphant smile on his face, and walked out with Jennifer. That's right, he was moving. Moving to a very secret, very secure place, ensuring that the Van der Linde Gang, those masters of nocturnal ambush, couldn't launch another surprise attack.

Stealing Mr. Van der Linde's old home, his very foundation, would surely provoke his legendary anger, and Bronte, by God, did not want to be roused from his sleep one night by the reek of horse manure and the sight of a damned, middle-aged outlaw's furious face.

"Hahaha, moving, sneak attacking, flanking. Mr. Van der Linde, this is my plan, simple and utterly genius! I hope you're happy with it, you fool." Signor Bronte's cold, calculating wisdom was on full display; he was not, as some might believe, a fool, merely a man with a fatal flaw of arrogance.

"And these damned families," he mused, a cruel glint in his eye, "perhaps I think I can give Mr. Van der Linde an opportunity to help me kill all the people in these families!" From beginning to end, Dutch Van der Linde was not a serious opponent for Bronte.

His only true opponents were these damned, deeply entrenched upper-class families, those rival mafiosi. For Dutch, he could unleash limitless attacks, but against these powerful families, one wrong step meant losing everything.

Dutch, for all his cunning, had no inkling of Signor Bronte's true thoughts, mainly because he couldn't possibly have predicted that someone would be foolish enough to try to ambush his "old home" at Hope Ranch.

A ranch, it should be noted, that now boasted five formidable bunkers, five Maxim guns, forty battle-hardened gunmen, one artillery piece, plus the loyalty of the entire Valentine veteran force. In addition, the two carts of rifles that Davey and his group had recently captured meant that the female workers at Hope Ranch were each given a rifle for self-defense, a safety precaution.

If they were included in the calculation, the combined combat strength of Hope Happiness Ranch could easily swell to two hundred gunmen. Of course, Signor Bronte didn't know these things, nor could he possibly fathom them.

However, there had been some significant progress with the Indian people, a demographic Dutch had always desperately wanted to bring into his fold.

"Hya!"

The sharp, rhythmic thud of hooves echoed through the dense, oppressive forest, accompanied by the whistling of galloping wind, a symphony of chase. Seven swift horses, ridden by agile, desperate figures, galloped through the thick undergrowth, stirring up countless fallen leaves, and then sped off into the distant, fading light.

Another seven or eight American men, riding equally fast horses and clad in the distinctive American military uniforms, chased closely behind, continuously unleashing a hail of gunfire.

"Bang bang bang..."

Piercing gunshots rang out continuously, the reports cracking through the forest, punctuated by the faint thwack of bullets occasionally striking tree trunks. Perhaps the seven figures in front were too intimately familiar with the treacherous terrain, or perhaps their horses simply ran with the desperate speed of those fleeing for their lives, but the distance between the two groups widened steadily in the dense, unforgiving forest.

Finally, the American soldiers, their faces grim, reined in their horses, panting. The leading officer-like man, his face contorted with impotent rage, angrily cursed at the rapidly retreating figures of the Indians before him.

"Damn you savages! Filthy, red skinned heathen bastards—every last one of you! I'll wipe your kind clean off this land, you hear? I'll see your scalps hang from my saddle and your blood soak the soil! Our soil! Your squaws'll howl when I ride through, and your braves'll rot like varmints in the sun! By God, I'll see it done!"

His voice, cracked with fury and hate, rang through the silent woods like rifle fire—each word a venomous shot from a soul burning with vengeance.