Bullets

Dutch, a furrow in his brow, continued to puff on his cigar, a plume of smoke curling into the dim light of Shady Belle. He truly was out of his depth when it came to mechanical manufacturing, utterly clueless about whether bullet-making machines could only be acquired through specific, clandestine channels.

However, a vague memory from his past life flickered: how those who studied mechanics seemed capable of handcrafting firearms, even if things were vastly different now. There shouldn't be too many difficult restrictions, should there? He realized, with a sudden, frustrating pang, that he might have taken a wrong turn in his thinking, perhaps overcomplicating things.

Thinking of this, Dutch looked at Mr. Randy, who was still hunched over his bullet press, lost in his mechanical world. "Mr. Randy," Dutch inquired, his voice a thoughtful hum, "can machines for making bullets or firearms only be purchased through specific channels? Or can we not make them ourselves, or perhaps have them processed for us by some factories?"

"Of course, Mr. Van der Linde!" Mr. Randy replied without turning his head, his hands meticulously operating and adjusting the bullet press.

"These bullet presses are the most basic type of pressing equipment, and firearms can be manufactured entirely with machine tools, sir. The only slight trouble is the mold specifications; without a reference, the molds produced might not be up to standard, which could lead to problems with the bullets produced. You know," he added, a hint of disdain in his voice, "these factories in Saint Denis certainly can't compare to those large international factories, so that's why we choose to purchase."

Dutch's gaze narrowed slightly, his fingers stroking his impeccably groomed beard. A solemn note entered his voice. "Damn! It seems it's time for me to recruit some intellectuals, some true scholars. Even if we can replicate the machines for making firearms, without scientists, without innovation, there's no way to truly advance, to innovate. And the monumental research into Tanks and airplanes," he mused, his eyes distant, envisioning a future of mechanized warfare, "also requires the efforts of these scientific scholars..."

Dutch felt a familiar, uncomfortable sensation: he was stretched thin, especially financially. These scientific scholars, these brilliant minds, required a vast sum of money; with his current wealth, he couldn't even allow Marko to research without restraint, to unleash his full genius. From this perspective, expanding the clothing store was not just an option, it was an imperative. And the arms business also needed to start developing simultaneously, a second pillar of his empire, to ensure his foundation was firmly laid when the scientific scholars finally arrived, ready to join his cause.

Thinking of this, Dutch looked at Arthur, a new resolve in his eyes. "Alright, Arthur. I think we need to continue striving towards our goal, towards the future. Call John, son, and come with me to Van Horn Trading Post. I think it's time we went to see Mr. Charlie Bahn."

"Okay, Dutch." Arthur nodded, his face grim. He stood on the wagon nearby, his gaze sweeping the ranch, and called out to John, who was lazily whittling wood at the entrance of Shady Belle. "Marston! Marston!"

"Here!" John immediately looked up, startled, shouting back, then quickly got up and walked towards them, abandoning his whittling.

Three fast horses, bearing Dutch, Arthur, and John, galloped out of Shady Belle, disappearing into the distance towards the ominous Van Horn Trading Post. After they left, Hosea, along with Davey, Mac, Lenny, and Sean, also departed from Shady Belle. Shady Belle, now a formidable fortress, had sufficient personnel, with ten gunmen plus a fortified bunker enough to ensure its safety against any casual incursions.

So, the rest of the gang would return to Valentine, to await the delivery of a new batch of sewing machines. The fifty sewing machines purchased last time were all left in Shady Belle. And after recruiting a fresh batch of female workers in Valentine, all female worker families with children would be transported to Shady Belle to work, developing it into a second, bustling clothing production base. By then, Shady Belle's security and construction capabilities would truly take shape, a testament to Dutch's meticulous planning.

And the brutal decapitation operation in Rhodes could then begin. Once Rhodes was leaderless, its ruling families eliminated, they could swiftly build factories and bunkers there, thereby starting the construction of a new, strategic base. These were all intricate plans Dutch had calculated, one linked to another, each piece fitting perfectly, ultimately forging the entire Lemoyne territory into a strong, unyielding fortress for his empire. Of course, the main focus now was still on the mysterious depths of Van Horn Trading Post.

Van Horn Trading Post, an eerie, almost derelict area in the game, was located in New Hanover, adjacent to Lemoyne. In reality, it wasn't just Van Horn Trading Post that was eerie; the entire New Hanover territory was quite unsettling. Not only was there Van Horn Trading Post, a lawless haven where the police station had been destroyed and occupied by various chaotic forces, but there was also The Murfree Brood, a notorious, cannibalistic family, lurking in the shadows.

Currently, apart from Annesburg, which still maintained some semblance of a police presence, almost all other areas in New Hanover were occupied by various outlaws, a completely lawless land of the West, a true den of thieves and murderers. If Dutch hadn't changed, hadn't abandoned his outlaw ways for a grander vision, this place would have been their ideal living environment.

Hiding in the vast, untamed wilderness of New Hanover, if no one reported them, no matter how many Pinkerton Detectives came, it would be difficult to track them down. Moreover, this place was teeming with various criminals, so the Pinkerton Detectives would probably have difficulty concentrating their attention solely on the Van der Linde Gang, their resources stretched thin.

Time passed. It would take at least a few days to get from Shady Belle to New Hanover, even if they took a train to Annesburg first, it would still require two arduous days to travel from Annesburg to Van Horn Trading Post. (The distance, for the sake of the narrative, was slightly extended, otherwise the map would be too small for such an epic journey.) So they could only camp in the dense jungle midway.

"Hya!"

The sound of hooves echoed through the dense, unforgiving forest. As an area closer to the north, the temperature in New Hanover was clearly not as high as in Saint Denis, offering a slight respite from the oppressive humidity. But at the same time, the humidity was more suitable for rampant, suffocating growth, which allowed trees and dense, thorny grass to flourish here, creating a tangled, almost impenetrable landscape.

The three fast horses slowly stopped in the middle of the forest, their flanks heaving.

"Arthur, John, set up a tent, boys," Dutch instructed, shooing away a persistent swarm of mosquitoes with evident distaste, his face scrunched up. "This place is not like Valentine; the mosquitoes here are terrible, practically biblical. Sh*t!, this is practically an undeveloped wilderness, a godforsaken swamp!"

"Okay, Dutch!" John nodded, his face grim. He voluntarily took the tent-pitching task from Arthur's hands, who had been about to retrieve the canvas, and immediately got to work. There was no other way; Dutch was like his father, a figure of daunting authority, and Arthur was like his exasperated elder brother. If he didn't do this job, who the hell would?

Arthur, meanwhile, picked up some dry branches nearby to start a bonfire, the crackle of burning wood a welcome sound in the encroaching darkness. He then took out some shredded meat from his saddlebag to roast over the flickering flames, the smell of sizzling meat a comforting aroma.

"Oh, finally out of Saint Denis. These past few days, I feel like my skin has been softened by the water, damn it. Sh*t!, why was Saint Denis built in such a humid, mosquito-infested place?" Arthur grumbled, his voice laced with complaint about the harsh, oppressive environment of Saint Denis.

Compared to the neither-hot-nor-cold, temperate environment of Valentine, Saint Denis was indeed not a place with a good, comfortable environment. Swamps, oceans, alligators, pythons—the resulting heat and humidity were almost unbearable, a constant, cloying presence.

"I feel the same. I think Blackwater is much more comfortable than Saint Denis," John interjected, his long, unkempt hair disheveled, which greatly displeased Dutch.

"Sh*t!, John, can you please manage your damn hair or just cut it short, son?!" Dutch exploded, pointing an accusing finger at John's head, his face a mask of exasperation.

"Sh*t!, look at yourself, disheveled long hair, a scruffy beard like a tramp! You look like a beggar, by God! Please, you're a person of status when you're out now! You're the 'Mr. Marston' they talk about; you should pay more attention to your image, son! You should be a role model for little Jack! Not giving him negative influences by letting your damn hair hang loose every day, looking like you crawled out of a swamp!"

John clutched his forehead, exasperated. "Oh, enough, Dutch, don't say anymore. You've been criticizing my hair since this morning. I don't understand how it's bothering you so much."

Dutch looked utterly astonished, his mouth agape. "Sh*t!, John! Are you not even listening to me now?! Look at Arthur, ever since I talked to him last time, he's been paying attention to his image at all times, slicking his hair back, polishing his boots! And you? You only talk back to me! Damn!, you could have cut that stupid hair of yours in the time you spend talking back and arguing!"

(Maybe if you got rid of that old yee-yee ass haircut you got you'd get some bitches on your d*ck. COWBOY!)

Arthur looked at the two, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Marston, I suggest you listen to Dutch, otherwise he'll be nagging you for days, like an annoying fly, buzzing in your ear."

"Sh*t!, Arthur!" Dutch glared at Arthur, exasperated, knowing he'd been outmaneuvered.

However, just then, two arrogant voices, thick with menace, suddenly rang out from behind the trio, cutting through the bickering.

"Hahaha, gentlemen, you really are like three annoying flies!"

As soon as the words fell, two guns, cold and metallic, were already pressed firmly against Arthur's and Dutch's heads.

"Ah hahaha, gentlemen, you should know this is The Murfree Brood's territory. You should be careful when camping, strangers." The voice, a low, guttural growl, was laced with cruel amusement.