Speech
The chaos on the street had not merely reached its peak; it had transcended it, becoming something almost sublime. No, at this point, it shouldn't even be called chaos anymore; it was an orderly chaos, a surging, desperate wave of humanity, unified in its fervent desire.
"Hya!"
Accompanied by the rhythmic, powerful thud of hooves against the muddy street, three tall, magnificent horses slowly, majestically, advanced from the far end of the street, parting the human sea. The leading horse, a majestic creature so white it seemed to have a faint, ethereal pink hue, was magnificent and robust, its muscles rippling under its pale coat. Dutch, who rode it with an almost divine grace, looked exactly like the Prince Charming of these women's desperate, yearning dreams, a benevolent, powerful savior.
With Dutch's arrival, a figure of impossible charisma, the atmosphere on the scene instantly reached its howling, frenzied climax.
"Van der Linde!"
Suddenly, a single, piercing voice, thick with raw emotion, shouted Dutch's name first. Then, as if a dam had burst, the women and men, packed shoulder-to-shoulder, filling the entire street from wall to wall, all began shouting in a unified, desperate unison.
"Van der Linde!"
"Van der Linde!"
"Van der Linde!"
Dutch had set a recruitment quota of two hundred people, a mere drop in the ocean, but now there were three thousand souls gathered on this street, a living, breathing testament to his influence. No one knew who had started shouting first, but then, like a contagion, groups upon groups of people, their faces contorted with a desperate hope, began to shout Dutch's name.
These shouts were scattered at first, a discordant chorus, but as they continued, fueled by raw emotion, they gradually became more organized, more powerful, and finally, they were perfectly, terrifyingly synchronized, a single, thundering roar.
"VAN DER LINDE!"
"VAN DER LINDE!"
The perfectly synchronized shouts were astonishingly powerful, a visceral, overwhelming force. The very air vibrated with their desperate fervor. Everyone looked at Dutch, who was slowly, deliberately, arriving on horseback, their eyes wide, almost maniacal with fervent devotion. Each of them trembled with excitement, with a desperate, almost religious fervor, wishing they could leap into the air and cheer, to throw themselves at his feet.
Emotion, Dutch knew, was a form of energy, and energy had vibration, also known as a wave. When so many waves of the same frequency gathered, even those who had been indifferent, who had come out of mere curiosity, were affected by the sheer, overwhelming resonance of this energy wave, causing their emotions to become violently agitated, and they began to shout involuntarily, their voices joining the thunderous chorus. Concerts, Dutch mused, were always so fervent because of this very collective effect, this shared hysteria.
And now, the entire collective was roaring, chanting, cheering for Dutch, their unlikely savior. So even those who had been utterly indifferent to Dutch before, who had perhaps scoffed at his reputation, couldn't help but become mentally agitated, deeply imprinting a profound, almost religious impression of Dutch in their minds.
This impression, Dutch knew, would accumulate silently, little by little, slowly but surely conquering their very hearts, making them slowly start to feel that Dutch was awesome, almost divine, and ultimately transforming them into new, fervent supporters, loyal to his very breath.
(This was also called the impression effect, a psychological trick that truly existed; one would unconsciously find some advantage, some redeeming quality in him, to justify their support, to rationalize their fervent devotion).
As the three of them rode forward, their horses' hooves making a hollow sound on the bricks, the surging crowd gathered on the street spontaneously, reverently, cleared a path for Mr. Van der Linde to pass through, a human corridor of desperate hope.
Sheriff Malloy, a man usually prone to pompous arrogance, had already instantly recognized his pathetic place in this grand spectacle. He scurried forward, his face pale with awe, fawningly taking the rope of Dutch's horse, acting as a humble servant to guide Dutch's magnificent steed to the very front of the tailor shop, his usual authority utterly gone.
"VAN DER LINDE!"
"VAN DER LINDE!"
The cheers on the street became even more synchronized, the sound so immense, so utterly overwhelming, it almost seemed to physically overturn the entire small town, shaking its very foundations. However, this excited and enthusiastic cheering, this deafening roar, instantly, miraculously, ceased when Dutch, with a single, calm gesture, merely raised a hand!
"Sh*t!"
Agent Milton, hidden in a nearby saloon, watching this impossible display of control, cursed angrily under his breath, his face no longer showing his previous, sneering composure. His jaw hung slack, a stark picture of disbelief. Damn it, he thought, a cold dread seizing his gut, anyone would find it hard to remain calm in the face of such a scene! This was an entire street packed, crammed full of people! And they were all in a state of extreme, feverish excitement!
Yet, even so, with Dutch simply raising a hand, with a mere gesture, the entire chaotic scene immediately fell into an unnerving, profound silence. This terrifying control and cohesion, this absolute command over human masses, were even more formidable than the current United States Army! And this was just the situation in Valentine, a small, insignificant town; he couldn't even begin to imagine how united, how utterly fanatical, the people in Dutch's factory were! Damn it, why did this damned desperado, this common outlaw, possess such great, such terrifying charisma?!
Milton's gaze was deep and heavy, a profound despair settling in his eyes. He looked at Dutch, a tiny, almost insignificant figure amidst the adoring crowd, and said to Ross, his voice barely a whisper, thick with the bitter taste of defeat,
"It's time to leave, Mr. Ross. The Van der Linde Gang is no longer something we can contend with, not by ourselves. I think we need to start filing a formal lawsuit with the Federal Government. Mr. Dutch Van der Linde is no longer a problem that can be solved by us, or by New Hanover alone! He's a national threat."
Valentine was, after all, located in New Hanover, a sprawling, large state famous for its livestock, its untamed wilderness. Valentine, Emerald Ranch, Annesburg, and Van Horn Trading Post were all nestled here, rich in untapped resources but relatively undeveloped, a wild, untamed frontier. Among other things, the area of New Hanover near Annesburg was completely undeveloped wilderness, a vast, lawless expanse, so the New Hanover state government was relatively weak, almost laughably so.
Not to mention restricting or confronting the Van der Linde Gang, it couldn't even control its own territories like Valentine and Annesburg. It was a typical case where county sheriffs were much stronger than state police, a dysfunctional hierarchy. It simply could not compare to the organized, efficient state government of Lemoyne. So, if they wanted to target Dutch now, to finally bring him down, they could only appeal directly to the powerful United States Federal Government.
Dutch was now inextricably united with ordinary people, his influence vast, making it incredibly difficult for the authorities to take action. They had to consider the immense, public impact of sending a large number of people to confront him, of turning the ordinary citizens against them. Originally, the Pinkerton Detectives were intentionally restricted by the Federal Government, their power curtailed. Now, if they were to engage in widespread killing and confrontation to encircle and suppress the Van der Linde Gang, causing regional instability and public outrage, their consequences would be even more severe, their careers ruined.
Ross immediately obeyed Milton's grim words, his face pale, and intended to turn and leave, but Milton did not move. He looked at Dutch in the crowd, his gaze profound, his eyes still filled with intense, almost paralyzing shock.
"Dutch Van der Linde," Milton murmured, his voice laced with grudging admiration and a chilling dread, "he seems to have found a new, crazy path that allows him to act with impunity, to wield power unlike any outlaw before him!" The people inside the saloon had already run out, spilling into the street to see Dutch, their faces contorted with a desperate, unified hope, so no one could hear Milton and Ross's conversation, their grim prognostications lost to the roar of the crowd.
Meanwhile, Mr. Dutch Van der Linde, standing proudly at the entrance of the tailor shop, had already begun his public speech, a mesmerizing performance. At this moment, the entire street in front of the tailor shop was packed, jammed with dense crowds, a pulsating sea of humanity. Whether they were women who usually took care of their families, their lives a monotonous struggle, or those who sold themselves in saloons, their dignity stripped away, or washed dishes for a pittance, they were all now excitedly gathered on the street, looking at Mr. Dutch on horseback with eager anticipation and a profound, desperate longing.
Their hearts, flattened by life's relentless oppression, had reignited with fire, a fierce, burning hope; their numb eyes, once dull and lifeless, had once again bloomed with a vibrant, almost terrifying hope; their impoverished, frail bodies trembled uncontrollably with excitement, making one feel a profound sense of fear just by looking at them, a fear of their collective power. One even felt that if these women were not selected for the quota, if their hopes were dashed, they might simply die of sheer despair, their fragile spirits unable to bear the crushing disappointment.
Looking at the eager, almost frenzied eyes below, and the clearly excessive number of people, far beyond his recruitment quota, Dutch showed no worry, not a single flicker of concern. His face was still full of a gentle, reassuring smile; he was always so gentlemanly, always so effortlessly charming, always making people feel full of charisma, full of hope.
"Ladies and gentlemen, good morning. I am Dutch Van der Linde. Of course, you can also call me Arthur Callahan!" Dutch's voice boomed, calm and confident, his words carrying across the hushed crowd, a bold, almost arrogant declaration of his dual identity.
Sheriff Malloy, who was responsible for holding Dutch's horse, wiped a bead of cold sweat from his forehead, his face pale with bewildered apprehension. A bit too arrogant, brother, he thought, his mind reeling. Even if everyone knows you are Mr. Dutch Van der Linde, you shouldn't say it so brazenly when you're out and about, in front of the whole town! What am I supposed to do, by God, how do I explain this to the authorities?!
As Dutch spoke, the expressions of the crowd below became even more excited, their faces flushed, their eyes shining with adoration. If Dutch hadn't kept his hand raised, a silent, powerful command to stop the crowd from speaking, the excitement might have erupted into a full-blown riot again, a chaotic explosion of fervent devotion.