Fort

With Arthur's triumphant return, Davey, Mac, and John also came back one after another, their arrivals spaced mere moments apart. For these hardened outlaws, dealing with a handful, a dozen, or even dozens of common gang thugs was an easy task, a mere trifle.

Especially compared to the frustrating mechanics of the game, in reality, their reaction speed didn't need the mystical boost of Dead Eye, nor did it require chewing foul tobacco to maintain some supposed superhuman focus. Because their true reaction speed was a constant, unwavering Dead Eye state; for these superhumans, dispatching a dozen or so thugs was merely a matter of smoothly changing bullets a few times, their only real concern being to avoid taking a stray hit during the lightning-fast, brutal dance of death.

After extinguishing the dying embers of the campfire, Dutch, his face etched with grim determination, and his loyal crew set off once more, their destination: Brennan Fort.

"Hya!" With a sharp, guttural shout from Dutch, several fast horses galloped out of the dense forest, their powerful hooves churning up the earth, heading towards Brennan Fort against the backdrop of the blood-red, setting sun.

"Arthur, Davey, are you sure you killed all the thugs?" Dutch asked, his voice low, his gaze fixed on Arthur and Davey, who rode half a step behind him, like vigilant shadows.

"All killed, Dutch. Every last one of those damned bastards." Arthur's voice was loud, clear, but tinged with a raw disgust.

"Signor Bronte's influence is not small; there must have been over a hundred of those scum. These damned scumbags were basically murdering and robbing at will. I even saw a family of three, a mother, father, and child, killed by these damned bastards on the road. It was sickening, Dutch."

He recalled the gruesome scene he had witnessed, and a wave of pure revulsion washed over him. Their Van der Linde Gang, after all, robbed the rich to help the poor, and most importantly, they never harmed civilians.

Even in the desperate, terrifying chaos of Blackwater Town, Dutch had not stooped to hijacking civilians or firing a single shot at innocent passersby. Even Micah, after killing, a civilian, had faced Dutch's ruthless justice, executed in the icy grip of the snowy mountains. So, they harbored an intense, visceral disapproval of such cowardly bullying of the weak.

"Damn it, these urban parasites! These damned bastards!" Dutch cursed fiercely, his face contorted with barely contained fury.

"Their very existence is a great destruction to Saint Denis's stability! Well, I think when we control Saint Denis, perhaps we can capture these damned guys and send them to Guarma to mine. These damned residues should die in the coal mine; that's called making the best use of bastards!"

He snarled, his eyes blazing with a cold, ruthless ideology. He truly believed that these damned people, who thought only of getting something for nothing, deserved nothing less than to die in heavy, soul-crushing physical labor.

As the horses continued forward, their rhythmic clip-clop echoing in the gathering darkness, the group finally reached the periphery of Brennan Fort after nightfall.

"Alright, let's stop the horses here, gentlemen. I think we should wait a while, let the people inside fall asleep before launching a sneak attack."

In the dense bushes not far from Brennan Fort, Dutch and the others reined in their horses, then dismounted silently. These Van der Linde Gang members were all exquisitely skilled, excelling in subtle sneak attacks, precise assassinations, and even brutal, direct gunfights when necessary.

But for a fort like Brennan Fort, with its menacing Maxim gun pointing directly at the entrance like a hungry maw, a sneak attack was clearly a much more sensible, much less costly approach than a direct, frontal confrontation.

"If possible, try to capture Mr. Lindsay Wofford, the commander of the Lemoyne Raiders, alive. I think only a sneak attack can ensure he won't be killed directly by us in the heat of battle." Dutch instructed the others, his voice low and precise. He then looked towards Brennan Fort and waved a hand.

"Take out your binoculars and check the situation inside. I don't want you to alert the guards when we go in later." Saying that, he also pulled out his own binoculars, bringing them to his eyes, and peered intently into the shadowy confines of Brennan Fort.

As the armory of the Lemoyne Raiders, Brennan Fort's defenses, while not exactly impenetrable, were not to be scoffed at. Of course, a defensive force of twenty or thirty people was considered quite strict in the untamed West; the reason it was said not to be "strict" was only from the privileged, superhuman perspective of the Van der Linde Gang.

Perhaps the number of people stationed here should have been more before, but during this period, after some were transferred and others met their violent end at the hands of Davey and the others, the defensive strength here had been considerably reduced.

Looking through the binoculars, Dutch observed the scene inside. Only five figures were on duty at this time; the others were either eating, drinking, or gambling, appearing exceptionally leisurely, their guard clearly down. The arms reserves in this place were even more extensive than those at Shady Belle, and all were strategically placed near what appeared to be a basement entrance.

It was unknown if even more arms were stored in the hidden depths below. Three unhitched wagons were parked inside the fort, their carriages laden with various boxes, suggesting either newly transported weapons or arms ready to be shipped out.

In addition, Dutch also spotted a small, intriguing machine inside. He couldn't quite tell if this thing was for rolling bullets or perhaps pressing sheet metal for bombs, but it resembled a small stamping press, humming faintly even from this distance. This type of machine was most suitable for rolling bullets, so it was very likely used for rolling bullet casings!

"Damn it, I think I've found something good, Arthur!" Dutch whispered, his eyes widening, a greedy, almost feverish green. "You guys, please don't damage that small machine later, okay? I think it should be our first small step towards becoming arms dealers!"

Dutch's eyes were practically glowing with avarice. In fact, stamping presses, crude as they were, already existed in this era. But he didn't know the precise specifications, the various styles, or the detailed structures of the molds required, which was why he had initially planned to buy or steal one to painstakingly reverse-engineer and imitate its manufacture.

He never expected to stumble upon a small one here, perfectly positioned! It was also quite rare that Brennan Fort, of all places, had managed to get electricity here, a true luxury in the untamed West!