Van Horn

In reality, besides the profound satisfaction of a direct, overwhelming takeover, Dutch also harbored a few other subtle, insidious intentions. New Hanover wasn't small, by God, but upon closer inspection of its ramshackle development, it was painfully clear that the entire area was still truly, brutally wild, an untamed frontier.

The vast expanse of New Hanover boasted only Annesburg under the direct, flimsy jurisdiction of the United States Government, a stark revelation that spoke volumes about its true power structure. Clearly, the New Hanover government currently lacked the strength, the very will, to control the various damned gangs and lawless families festering in its territory, and this, Dutch knew, was undoubtedly his opportunity, a golden invitation.

Gaining land from these damned, disorganized families and gangs was significantly easier, far less costly, requiring merely some bullets and a steady hand, than acquiring it from the formidable United States Government.

And this place, this forgotten corner of the map, was absurdly rich in resources, with several mines that could fully meet his future, boundless resource needs. So, the calculated reason for not flattening these damned Murfree Brood bastards now was to cunningly have them help the Van der Linde Gang look after the land first, acting as unwitting caretakers.

They would wait until the Van der Linde Gang developed to the point where they truly desired these lands and their vast resources, then he could begin to move in, a slow, inevitable conquest. This, Dutch knew, was his ultimate goal, his long-term play.

Acquiring land from these damned, squabbling families only required some well-placed bullets and a bit of persuasion, while acquiring land from the Federal Government would be a Herculean task, fraught with endless bureaucratic nightmares and impossible demands.

And it was highly likely that these mineral resources would have already been sold off by the corrupt New Hanover state government to larger, more ruthless capitalists before he even had a chance to enter the market, to stake his claim. Dutch, a man of boundless ambition, could not tolerate being a mere stepping stone for others.

So keeping these damned Murfree Brood around, allowing them to cling to their squalid existence, was still very useful, just like how he was currently, cynically, keeping Signor Bronte in his golden cage. Fomenting rebellion to maintain one's own indispensable importance was truly a very effective tactic, a brutal dance of manipulation.

The two pathetic scoundrels from The Murfree Brood were just a minor interlude these past few days, a small, irritating detour. At most, their pathetic ambush had merely spurred Dutch to start planning for New Hanover earlier than anticipated; their main objective now was still to reach the grim depths of Van Horn Trading Post.

Time flowed like thick molasses, slowly, relentlessly. The three fine horses finally arrived outside Van Horn Trading Post after a long, arduous journey, their flanks heaving. Van Horn Trading Post, with its unique blend of desolation and coastal decay, had a particularly eerie, almost morbid charm compared to other towns.

Due to its coastal location, the temperature here was lower but also very mild, without the oppressive dampness of Saint Denis, yet it felt somehow more desolate, more forgotten, compared to other, more vibrant settlements. This place was severely dilapidated, a crumbling testament to neglect. Although its name was Van Horn Trading Post, the main business conducted here was, ironically, smuggling, making it the largest black market in the West. However, without any semblance of government support, there was no maintenance, no large ships, only grim-faced gang members with eyes like sharpened knives or residents who, in their hardened desperation, were utterly indistinguishable from the criminals.

Residents who could survive here were already, by necessity, no different from gang members; even if they hadn't formally joined any gang, their relatives and friends formed intricate, unbreakable chains of interest, making them more like shadow organizers of the black market, the local, unofficial bigwigs.

The most common gang members infesting Van Horn Trading Post were the ubiquitous O'Driscoll Gang and the ever-present Lemoyne Raiders. The former were like common street thugs, found all over the West, their numbers legion, while the latter maintained a significant presence here due to their profitable arms dealing and illicit transportation.

The arrival of Dutch and his two companions, three figures of unexpected refinement in this cesspit, drew the immediate, hostile attention of Van Horn Trading Post. Wary, hostile, and openly greedy gazes converged on the trio, making them feel an almost palpable discomfort, a prickling sensation on their skin.

"Ohoho, gentlemen, what brings you here?" As their horses had just entered the main street of Van Horn Trading Post, a man with cold, gloomy eyes, a greasy smirk on his face, stood by the street, deliberately smashing the wine bottle in his hand in front of Dutch's horses, a blatant act of provocation. Dutch looked over, showing no anger at this crude display; these damned gang members were all like this, uncouth and disrespectful. He had long been used to such behavior over the years.

"We are looking for Charlie Bahn, mister. To discuss a business deal. How about it, mister, do you know his whereabouts?" Dutch smoothly pulled out a crisp five-dollar bill from his pocket, casually, contemptuously, tossed it onto the muddy ground in front of the man, and asked, his voice calm, utterly devoid of emotion. This posture was exquisitely humiliating, throwing money on the ground for someone to pick up, treating them no differently than a begging cur.

But the man didn't care at all; with a hint of mockery still playing on his face, he bent down, his eyes gleaming with avarice, to pick up the five dollars. He then pointed a grubby finger towards the murky harbor on the distant sea:

"Over there." With that, he chuckled to another accomplice, a grimy figure standing beside him: "Damn it, Charlie, these foreign bumpkins are really rich as hell!" His words were not lowered at all, spoken shamelessly at a normal volume right beside Dutch and the others, clearly showing no regard for the three of them or any so-called etiquette.

"Fuck you! Watch your mouth, fellow!" Before Dutch could even utter a word, John, who was on his left, moved with lightning speed. He pulled out his gun and fired a shot directly into the muddy ground in front of the man, the sharp crack of the pistol startling him, making him jump back. John's face was terrifyingly cold, utterly devoid of mercy.

Looking at the dark, menacing muzzle of John's gun, the two men, startled to their core by the sudden gunshot, exchanged nervous glances, said nothing more, and then, without another word, quickly walked into the grimy saloon behind them, their bravado evaporating like mist.

Everyone in this cursed place was scum; a gun was the only true way to speak here, the only language understood. Dutch giving money showed they were there for business, seeking a transaction. And John firing a shot showed, with brutal clarity, that they were not to be trifled with, that their patience was thin.

These were the unwritten rules they had long understood after years of mixing in this brutal underworld, and also the crude, violent way these damned scumbags communicated. Including the act of giving money, it was also a means of indicating their precise purpose. If they were looking for trouble, what they would give would not be money, but rather point their guns directly at the probing individuals, a direct, unambiguous declaration of war.

Yet, even so, loud, mocking laughter echoed again from in front of the three. "Hahaha, looks like they're three stubborn ones, brothers!"

Wild, guttural laughter roared in front of the trio, as a large, burly man with a face scarred like an old battle map stood with four others directly in front of their horses, all with mocking, insolent smiles plastered on their faces. If the previous two encounters were merely a test, a probing jab, these five were purely here to cause trouble, to provoke a fight.

"Oh, my dear gentlemen," the leading man sneered, his voice dripping with condescending amusement, leaning closer, a crude gun clutched in his right hand. He casually, insolently, tried to pat Dutch's horse's head with his left.

The Count, Dutch's magnificent steed, snorted, his nostrils flaring, and bit forward fiercely, a warning snap of his teeth. The horse, too, had its pride; it only allowed Dutch to ride it, and gang members could, at most, cautiously touch it. But other unfamiliar people, especially these grimy thugs, shouldn't even think about touching it.

The man abruptly snatched back his hand, then pointed at The Count, his face twisting into a mocking grin.

"Hahaha, damn it, did you see that? Even this horse is stubborn! Damn it, I'm sure the meat of such a stubborn animal would be delicious!" His words suddenly shifted, taking on a chilling, predatory tone. He looked at Dutch with a cold, malevolent gaze:

"What do you say, mister? Either you leave your horses, or you leave your money, how about it?" The surrounding eyes, dozens of them, converged, fixed on them like hungry wolves; clearly, if Dutch and his companions showed weakness or lacked immediate, brutal strength, they would suffer greatly, indeed.

Dutch rubbed his brow, a visible wave of annoyance washing over him, exasperated by the persistent, crude provocation. Then his eyes, usually so charismatic, turned utterly vicious as he scanned the surrounding, greedy faces, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

"Damn it, this cursed place has made me sick of it! From now on, if anyone dares to provoke me, I will lead a hundred men and flatten the entire Van Horn Trading Post! Arthur, crush these damned chattering bugs directly! Silence them!"

Dutch's anger, now fully unleashed, gave him the true, terrifying feeling of an enraged lion; his oppressive gaze, radiating lethal intent, even made the surrounding eyes subtly, instinctively avoid meeting his when he swept over them. And as he spoke, Arthur, on his left, instantly, silently pulled out his pistol, and then, almost as a continuous sound, gunshots rang out, a rapid-fire symphony of death. Before anyone could even react, before a single muscle could twitch, blood holes appeared, stark and brutal, in the heads of the five men blocking the road in front of Dutch and his companions.

"Bang bang bang…."

As a legendary marksman, a true artist of death, Arthur's basic operation was six shots per second, a terrifying blur of motion and sound. Only after the gunshots, their echoes reverberating through the desolate street, did the surrounding people finally react, their faces contorting in stunned horror.

And at that moment, all they saw was Arthur calmly, smoothly holstering his smoking gun and the five men lying dead in front of the three of them, their bodies crumpled like discarded rags. In a mere second, all five had been killed with precise, brutal headshots.

Almost immediately after these five fell, like puppets whose strings had been cut, the greedy, hostile gazes directed at Dutch and his companions vanished completely, replaced by a profound, chilling fear. Gunmanship, in this wretched place, was the most effective, most brutal means of persuasion.