Hah!

"Damn it, didn't Bronte teach you how to do things?!" Dutch, astride his horse, a furious glare on his face, took the lead in chasing after the six retreating ruffians. His voice, sharp and laced with disdain, cut through the humid air as he smoothly pulled his pistol from its holster. The six ruffians hadn't gone far; without horses, their escape was a lumbering, pitiful sprint.

Hearing Dutch's enraged voice, the six ruffians, their faces already streaked with sweat and fear, immediately wheeled around. The ringleader of their recent petty robbery, a man whose smug triumph had only moments ago been boundless, instantly stiffened. He stared at Dutch, who was slowly but relentlessly closing the distance on horseback, and a wary, almost palpable fear began to creep onto his face.

The ruffians beside him, their bravado evaporating, instantly drew their guns, pistols shaking slightly as they pointed them uncertainly at Dutch. Arthur and the others, grim-faced, had fanned out behind Dutch, their own weapons drawn, their eyes fixed on the ruffians' nervous movements.

And the leading ruffian, his face a mask of tension, tried to project an air of defiance. "Oh, Mr., I wonder what conflict we have? I don't recall us ever meeting." His voice, though attempting bravado, trembled slightly.

Dutch's pistol was aimed directly at his head, and combined with the sheer, palpable aura of lethal intent radiating from Dutch and his grim retinue, it felt like being stared down by a starving, furious tiger. He felt a cold dread, a profound sense of fear, even before a single shot had been fired.

These street ruffians, these urban vermin, might be ruthless in their petty crimes, their immorality boundless. But in front of the Van der Linde Gang, these truly, terrifyingly ruthless men, they were simply not on the same level. They might be vicious enough to dare to kill a hapless soul on the street to rob them of a few dollars.

But such an act, killing on the street, was likely the most heinous thing they had ever done, their peak of depravity. For the Van der Linde Gang, however, such acts were merely everyday life, a casual Tuesday. The very aura surrounding both sides was utterly, fundamentally different: one, a reckless, ignorant brute who reveled in casual cruelty; the other, a chillingly sinister, calculating villain, a force of nature.

Dutch's face was now a mask of pure, unadulterated rage, his expression exceptionally grim. Looking at the six cowering ruffians, he didn't deign to answer their pathetic question. Instead, he simply cursed, his voice a low growl that carried an undeniable threat.

"Damn it, didn't you hear what I just said, you bastards?! I'm asking you, didn't Bronte teach you how to do things, you incompetent scumbags?!" Dutch's voice, angry and sharp, resonated with an oppressive power so immense that these ruffians, despite their drawn guns, didn't even dare to meet his furious gaze.

The leading ruffian, startled to his very core, felt a cold knot of dread twist in his stomach. He had clearly provoked a big shot, a man far beyond his paltry understanding of the underworld. But, foolishly, he still attempted a show of ferocity. "Oh, Mr., I just asked you too, we—"

However, before his pathetic, fierce words were even half-finished, Dutch's thunderous roar, perfectly synchronized with the sharp crack of gunshots, already sounded.

"F*ck! If you can't understand human language, then speak to my gun!"

"Bang bang bang..."

Dutch's pistol, a blur in his hand, flashed with dazzling, deadly fire. The next moment, his revolver roared continuously, a symphony of rapid-fire death.

"Bang!" Blood holes, stark and brutal, appeared on the bodies of the six ruffians. Dutch, displaying his almost supernatural marksmanship, fired six bullets in less than a second, each finding its mark, headshotting all six ruffians with chilling precision.

This was Dutch's marksmanship, this was Dutch's true, terrifying combat power. His marksmanship accuracy, according to whispered legends of unpacked game data, even reached an astonishing ninety-nine percent.

Dutch didn't often go on missions himself, but one mustn't forget that John and Arthur's legendary marksmanship had both been honed under Dutch's tutelage. So these six ruffians, caught in the sudden, blinding hail of lead, didn't even have a chance to pull their own guns, didn't even register a reaction, before Dutch's surgical precision headshotted them all into eternal silence.

"F*ck! These damn things!" Dutch cursed fiercely, a raw disgust on his face, then slid his smoking pistol back into its holster with a practiced snap.

"Arthur, Mac, Davey, John," Dutch commanded, his voice now grimly serious. "I think our plan to go to Brennan Fort will have to be slightly delayed, gentlemen. Now you need to go and shoot all these damn ruffians sent by Signor Bronte! These damn things, their reckless actions are seriously damaging our property! These innocent passersby are very likely to be our future workers; they shouldn't die here, they should be doing their damnedest to work for us and create wealth for us!"

"Damn Bronte, I think he's really lost his mind, to actually send out these damn scumbags!" Dutch cursed Bronte fiercely, his face a mask of cold fury as he assigned tasks to Arthur and the others. "Alright, go, gentlemen, try to come back early; we're going to raid Brennan Fort tonight!"

"Okay, Dutch." Arthur, his own face grim, holstered his pistol, then looked at Davey, Mac, and John. Generally, when on missions, Dutch was always the undisputed leader. If Dutch wasn't there, it was Hosea. If Hosea wasn't there, it fell to Arthur. After Arthur came Davey, Mac, and even John. So now that Dutch had assigned the task, Arthur immediately began to organize a plan for its efficient completion.

"John, you search the easternmost part of Saint Denis, near the Shady Belle area. Davey, you and I will each take half of the middle. As for Mac, you take the westernmost position. Alright, gentlemen, speed it up, we still have to go to Brennan Fort later tonight." Arthur swiftly divided the mission areas, and then the four of them dispersed, scattering like shadows, galloping towards their respective zones of grim work.

Only Dutch, the orchestrator of this brutal symphony, slowly rode his horse towards a nearby grove. In the dappled shade, he dismounted, leisurely lit a bonfire, poured himself a steaming cup of coffee, and picked up a fresh cigar, puffing contentedly. There was no choice, he was the boss. And what could a boss do, but occasionally steal a moment of tranquil leisure?

"Gulp..." Dutch drank the warm coffee in one gulp, a slight sigh escaping him as he leaned against the tree. With the tip of his cigar, he casually, almost thoughtfully, burned the ants scurrying beneath the tree.

"Ah," he mused, a faint, almost nostalgic smile on his lips, "what's going on, I feel a bit like I miss Micah. Without that guy around as a yes-man, it really feels like something is missing." Poor Micah, he thought, his smile fading slightly. By this time, he'd have been gnawed down to bones by wild wolves in the snowy mountains. That poor little bastard, who knows how many wolf cubs it could have fed.

Time flowed slowly. Dutch sat alone under the tree, smoking his cigar, patiently waiting for Arthur and the others to return. It was better to raid Brennan Fort under the cloak of night. This was reality, not some simplistic game, so cunning stealth tactics, difficult to execute in a digital world, could be deployed here.

Like, for instance, silently inserting a rifle barrel into a crack in the fort wall to directly hit the unsuspecting gunmen inside. They could also subtly damage the Maxim gun, rendering it harmless before the assault even began.

The sun slowly began its descent, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and purple. Finally, the familiar sound of horse hooves drifted from the distant woods. Dutch, his senses sharpened by years on the run, could identify each rider by the distinct rhythm of their horses' hooves, just as a man knows the sound of his own car pulling up to his home.

"Come on, Arthur, there's still a cup of coffee you can catch, son." Dutch lifted his coffee pot from the fire, poured a steaming cup into a small iron mug nearby, and didn't even bother to stand up. He remained leaning against the tree, patiently waiting for Arthur.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky glowed a fiery red, casting a reddish, almost apocalyptic, hue over the entire forest. This time of day was usually for going home, for returning to hearth and kin. This atmosphere always felt somewhat serene, yet, compared to the bright, hopeful morning, it carried a greater sense of the fleetingness of time, of the profound, lingering solitude of a life lived on the edge.

Accompanied by the rhythmic thud of horse hooves, Arthur slowly rode under the tree, then dismounted with a casual ease, walking towards Dutch.

"Oh, Dutch, I don't know how long it's been since I've seen you so relaxed," Arthur remarked, striking a match on the sole of his boot, then looking at Dutch, who was leisurely smoking his cigar, leaning against the tree, radiating an aura of utter contentment. He sighed, a faint smile on his face.

"Yes, Arthur, we have indeed been busy lately," Dutch also sighed, a nostalgic quality in his voice. "Busy opening clothing stores, busy killing people, busy dealing with those damnable gentlemen of high society. It has indeed been a long time since we've stopped to simply... be." He reached out, offering Arthur the coffee he had just poured.

Arthur reached out and took the mug, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "But we've been doing really well lately, Dutch. I never thought I'd be called Mr. Morgan one day."

"Hahaha, what's that, Arthur?" Dutch laughed heartily, flicking his cigar into the dirt beneath the tree, extinguishing it with a final, decisive twist. "I think we will one day stand at the very top of this world, son. Then they won't call you Mr. Morgan. They'll call you President Morgan."

Dutch's words, bold and visionary, made Arthur smile and wave his hand dismissively, a slight flush rising to his cheeks. "Oh, forget it, Dutch, I don't want to be any president, by God. I just want everyone in our gang to live well. Especially you, Hosea, and Mary."

"Of course, Arthur, of course," Dutch replied, his smile slowly fading, his expression subtly shifting, becoming a little serious, a little more intense. "But for us old guys to live well, there's one thing you still need to do, son."

"What?" Arthur asked, looking at him, genuinely confused. He truly had no idea what he needed to do to ensure the well-being of the three of them.

"That's having a child, Arthur! Mary has already come to be with you, do you not even want a child? Arthur? Oh, come on, Arthur. Hosea, Ms. Grimshaw, and I really want a brand new, tiny gang member! I think a hundred years from now, our Van der Linde Gang might be handed over to this child. So, Arthur, you still need to work hard!" Dutch's seriousness vanished as abruptly as it had appeared, and he threw his head back, laughing heartily, standing up and clapping Arthur hard on the shoulder.

"Sh*t, Dutch, why can't you and Ms. O'Shea have one?!" Arthur's face instantly turned a fiery red, but thankfully, his thick beard hid his mortified expression, so Dutch, wrapped up in his own merriment, didn't notice. Otherwise, Arthur knew, he would have been mercilessly mocked by Dutch once more.

"You're a good man Arthur Morgan! You'd make a great father as well hahaha..."