Property

After seeing Mr. Randy excitedly begin scribbling a fervent letter to his cousin, Dutch finally turned to Davey, a new gleam in his eye.

"Alright, Davey, let's go. Arthur, Mac, John, all of you come over here. Bill, you stay put and guard our camp, especially Mr. Randy's precious hide." Dutch's words were a clipped command, leaving no room for argument.

"Okay, Dutch." Arthur nodded, his face a blend of resignation and curiosity. He tucked his journal back into his satchel and stood up, ready for the next grim adventure.

Another Lemoyne Raiders' arms depot was nestled deep within Brennan Fort, somewhere in the murky depths of Tall Trees Plains. Davey and the others had no earthly idea of this fort's location, but Dutch, ever the strategist, did. He even possessed a detailed map, ensuring Mr. Randy wouldn't have to embark on another terrifying, bomb-making adventure this time. This invaluable talent, Dutch knew, needed to be deployed with surgical precision, in the right place, at the right time.

The small group of five mounted their horses, their figures grim silhouettes against the setting sun, traversing through the untamed wilderness and dense forests, their destination: Tall Trees Plains. Brennan Fort, infamous in the Saint Denis underworld, often appeared on bounty hunter missions. Lemoyne Raiders' commander, Lindsay Wofford, was holed up there, and, more importantly, a menacing Maxim gun was set up inside.

The Lemoyne Raiders were using this crumbling fort not just as a hideout, but as a crucial weapons storehouse and a veritable bomb factory. Their source of gunpowder was the main objective of this operation; after all, machines alone were useless without the black powder to fuel them.

The group of five rode their horses grandly, almost defiantly, towards Tall Trees Plains. But before they reached their destination, an unsettling, almost comical, situation unfolding on the road ahead forced them to rein in their steeds.

"Ohoho, gentlemen, pray, stop your carriages! Otherwise, your consequences might prove quite tragic!" A sneering voice drifted from afar, not aimed at Dutch and his men, but at a cargo carriage trundling down the road in the distance. Six or seven men, radiating the unmistakable aura of common thugs, had brazenly held up the carriage with pistols. These scoundrels didn't even possess horses, yet they had formed a loose, menacing circle, effectively surrounding the trembling carriage.

"Oh, gentlemen, please don't shoot! If you want these goods, take them all! Every last piece!" The two coachmen on the carriage were utterly terrified, their hands shooting into the air in a desperate gesture of surrender.

Hearing this, the six thugs grinned, a triumphant, sneering display of yellowed teeth. One of them swaggered forward, roughly pulled the two coachmen down from their perch, and then, with casual cruelty, kicked them several times.

The coachmen, screaming and wailing, scrambled out of the thugs' circle, bolting into the distance as fast as their legs could carry them. However, just a few desperate steps later, gunshots rang out behind them, a chilling punctuation mark to their desperate flight.

Meanwhile, these ruffians, their faces alight with greedy triumph, happily began to pull their newly acquired carriage towards their crude camp nearby. That's right, these were precisely the kind of low-life ruffians Signor Bronte had unleashed in the past two days, a cynical gambit.

He had deployed them to attract the Van der Linde Gang's attention, to encircle them, to keep Dutch and his men focused on these petty annoyances. This, Bronte believed, would allow him to both "steal the homebase" (Dutch's factory) and simultaneously flex his considerable influence to the other upper-class figures in Saint Denis, thereby creating a powerful deterrent. It had to be said, Signor Bronte's plan, a cynical exercise in killing two birds with one stone, was indeed brilliantly conceived.

But there was one crucial thing he hadn't anticipated: without direct, authoritative leadership, this motley crew of thugs was about as obedient as a pack of stray dogs. When Bronte's younger generation of subordinates were still around, their authority easily suppressed these low-lives.

But now, with his younger generation almost wiped out, and no one stepping forward to crack the whip, these thugs, who possessed no moral compass or shred of obedience, were indulging themselves completely, running riot. They were using Signor Bronte's fearsome name, not to focus on the Van der Linde Gang as ordered, but rather to indulge in a veritable spree of indiscriminate robbery.

Just today, almost every single carriage passing outside Saint Denis had been intercepted. If it was cargo, the occupants were killed, the carriage seized. But if it was carrying people, especially women, they suffered greatly. This group of thugs, devoid of any humanity whatsoever, would rob money, brutalize people, steal goods, and finally, coldly, kill their victims. They were, in their depravity, practically as bad as the O'Driscolls.

Watching the retreating, swaggering backs of these thugs, Dutch's eyes narrowed slightly, a cold glint appearing in their depths. He asked, his voice deceptively calm, "Davey, are these all Signor Bronte's men?"

"No, Dutch." Davey answered, his face grim. "According to the news Lenny found out, they should be thugs under Bronte's subordinates. Signor Bronte has been using them to form patrol lines in the past two days, trying to encircle us, but so far there haven't been any useful actions; most of what they've done is just robbery and murder."

Davey relayed the recently acquired intelligence. As for these low-lifes, who were not truly Signor Bronte's effective forces but merely the scum of Saint Denis, they had no intention of wasting their time on them. Because if these thugs continued their current spree of murder and robbery, Signor Bronte would be so utterly terrified of the consequences that he would personally lead a team to wipe them out within two days.

Was he kidding? On the surface, Bronte was a philanthropic businessman, a pillar of the community. These damned thugs robbing and murdering under his very banner were like handing a sharpened knife to the powerful, watchful elites of Saint Denis.

"Oh, sh*t!, Signor Bronte is such an idiot! He can even make such a stupid, unforgivable mistake!" Dutch growled, his face contorted in a grimace of disgust and fury as he watched the thugs' retreating backs. His eyes, now blazing with a sinister, wolf-like malice, fixed on his men.

"Damn it, Arthur, Davey, go and kill all these damn idiots! I said that Signor Bronte's forces cannot escape Saint Denis even an inch, and that includes the thugs within Saint Denis! If they dare to mess with us, they should be prepared to die! I want Signor Bronte to feel the panic of being isolated and helpless in Saint Denis! And at the same time, give those damned upper-class people a severe, unforgettable deterrent!"

Dutch's gaze was as sinister as a predatory wolf's, fixed on the distant figures of the thugs. Signor Bronte, in Dutch's intricate scheme, could not afford to suffer any further setbacks now; he needed to be a perfectly behaved, compliant puppet in Saint Denis.

And the powerful, manipulative families of Saint Denis also needed to be reminded, with brutal clarity, just how tough Dutch's methods truly were. They needed to know, deep in their craven souls, that they would have to consider, with agonizing deliberation, whether they could truly afford the terrible price if they ever dared to even think of backstabbing him again.

Most importantly, these damned, murderous thugs they were slaughtering were very likely Dutch's future workers! Damn it, these were all gang assets! These were all potential factory model workers! They were workers who could provide invaluable labor and consumption to Dutch's burgeoning empire! Whether it was buying his clothes or working in his factories, their demise would have a direct, tangible impact on his wealth.

His property was not to be infringed upon!