Change

Mr. Milton, the Pinkerton Agent, left Valentine like a beaten dog, his head bowed, his usual arrogant stride replaced by a defeated shuffle. For the current Van der Linde Gang, the Pinkerton Detective Agency wasn't even a toothless tiger; it was a whimpering, utterly neutered pup.

A single, astute understanding of cross-state jurisdiction had completely defeated the Pinkerton Detective, not to mention the chaotic, uncoordinated interstate bounties that rendered their efforts utterly ineffectual.

Looking at the heavily closed door, a symbolic barrier between his burgeoning empire and the decaying world outside, Dutch broke into a silent, triumphant laugh, a low, rumbling sound of pure satisfaction. He shook his head with a wide, self-satisfied smile, then raised his glass and looked at Sheriff Malloy, who sat opposite him, beaming with obsequious delight.

"Alright, Mr. Malloy," Dutch declared, his voice ringing with authority, "our cooperation has been achieved, our fates now intertwined, and now I will begin my plan, my grand design! Valentine must become a peaceful, friendly, prosperous, and democratic city of the new era! This is the very foundation of our foothold, the bedrock of our control!"

"Of course, Mr. Van der Linde, everything is up to you, sir! Your word is law!" Malloy raised his glass with a wide, almost manic smile, his eyes shining with fervent devotion, and exclaimed, his voice ringing with theatrical enthusiasm. The two cooperated, their smiles mirroring each other, a perfect symphony of power and compliance.

This was also a necessary means for Dutch, an indispensable tool in his arsenal. The town sheriff in this era truly held all sorts of arbitrary power, doing whatever he pleased, a petty tyrant in his own domain. The fundamental reason he couldn't display it at that time was the rampant prevalence of lawless gangs. These gangs, capable of massacring entire villages and towns with impunity, greatly undermined the sheriff's authority and power; in fact, if a sheriff was disobedient, if he dared to defy, he would be swiftly assassinated or brutally tortured by gang members.

Consequently, sheriffs, despite possessing various immense powers on paper, showed no assertiveness, no backbone, and in areas further west, in the truly wild frontier, they even had to curry favor with gang members, begging for their mercy. Simply put, their power was immense, but their military force, their ability to project that power, couldn't match the vast influence they supposedly controlled, leading to the tragic inability to exercise that power.

When brute force cannot support the operation of power, so-called power is nothing but nonsense, a meaningless word, a hollow shell. Therefore, if Dutch wanted to wield supreme, unchallenged power in Valentine, his primary objective was to possess formidable, overwhelming military might!

"Alright, Mr. Malloy, we'll take our leave now." Dutch, with a charming smile, picked up his hat and gave a slight, dismissive nod, then walked out of the police station with Arthur, John, and Hosea, leaving Malloy beaming in his wake.

On the bustling streets of Valentine, recruitment was still ongoing, a desperate, swirling vortex of human longing; no one knew that just moments ago, the very representative of power in Valentine had irrevocably shifted, his allegiance pledged. However, this was, in the grand scheme of things, good news for the common people of Valentine. Dutch's omnipresent influence, his iron fist cloaked in velvet, would undoubtedly protect their peaceful and beautiful lives, a new, benevolent tyranny.

"Hosea, go to the Veteran Club and take over the gunmen recruited during this period. I think Mr. Trelawny should have collected quite a few names during this time, a steady stream of willing recruits," Dutch said, looking at Hosea, who walked beside him, his face thoughtful.

Ever since the Veteran Club's Veterans Mutual Aid Association was established last time, Trelawny, in his charming, persuasive way, had been receiving a continuous stream of job openings, attracting a steady flow of desperate men. Now, quite a few people have accumulated, probably twenty or thirty, a ready-made private army. Just in time, the rapid expansion of the factory and the crucial construction of Valentine both needed manpower, raw, eager labor, so these people came at a very opportune, almost divine, moment.

"Okay, Dutch." Hosea nodded, a sigh escaping him; he didn't ask any more questions. Now, he confessed, he truly couldn't understand his old friend's increasingly absurd operations, his grand, incomprehensible plans. But that wasn't an issue, not truly; the gang was constantly improving, expanding, thriving under his leadership, and that, Hosea told himself, was enough.

"Oh, right, Hosea, John." Dutch's expression became serious, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying, strategic brilliance. "You two might need to be busier during this time, far busier. The opening of our factory stalls will surely attract many people for trade, a veritable gold rush, and this will undoubtedly draw the covetous attention of some ill-intentioned gang members, like flies to honey." Dutch paused, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl.

"So, within the next few days, I need you to quickly build bunkers along the road from Valentine to the Hopeful Ranch, every thousand meters like deadly sentinels. Purchase Maxim guns, whatever the cost, and ensure that we have a bunker every thousand meters to guarantee absolute safety, while also creating an unshakeable military foundation for our control of Valentine, an iron grip.

At the very least, even if the United States Army comes, they must be completely helpless against us, utterly unable to breach our defenses, for it to be considered safe! These damned gangs and hooligans, I will not allow them to exist within the confines of Valentine, not for a single moment!"

"Ah!" Hosea gasped, his face paling, a look of profound shock and despair washing over him. "Absurd! Dutch, your ideas are truly becoming absurd!" In fact, from the very beginning, the idea of building bunkers, these static, seemingly useless fortifications, was utterly incomprehensible to everyone in the Van der Linde Gang.

The price of a bunker wasn't constantly high; including a Maxim gun, a small bunker's cost was only two thousand dollars, but these two thousand dollars could clearly recruit twenty capable gunmen, twenty loyal soldiers.

Yet, Dutch insisted on squandering it to build these damned bunkers! This way of thinking was beyond their comprehension, utterly nonsensical. Building bunkers was one thing; building one or two was called security, a reasonable precaution. But Dutch was now building them everywhere he went, like a madman obsessed with fortifications, and he repeatedly cited the United States Army's supposed inability to conquer them as an example, a chilling boast.

Damn it, Hosea thought, his mind reeling, was he building bunkers, or was he founding a nation?! Why did Dutch always give him the unsettling impression of fantasizing about overthrowing America itself?

Hosea felt completely numb, a creeping despair settling in his heart; he suddenly realized that Dutch hadn't changed at all; he was still fighting against the times, a lone, defiant figure! It was just that the method of resistance had changed, from brute force to something far more insidious. Before, it was just open rebellion, a clash of brute force; now, he was pursuing the chilling idea of overthrowing America by himself, with cement and Maxims! Hosea's expression became exceptionally strange, a mixture of fear, bewilderment, and a profound, sad understanding.

He looked at Dutch, thought for a long, agonizing moment, and finally, his voice heavy with despair, spoke: "Dutch, I don't know what your purpose is in building so many bunkers, in wasting so much money on these fortifications, but I still want to give these kids a way out. If you really want to contend with the United States Government, if this is truly your final, mad ambition, then why not let these children leave first? Let them go, let them live free. I'll stay here with you, to the bitter end. They're still young, Dutch, I don't want..." Hosea's gaze fell on Arthur and John, their faces grim, their guns still at the ready; he knew it would be difficult to convince these children to leave now, their loyalty absolute, and equally difficult to persuade Dutch, whose will was unbending.

But he had to try, had to speak, not wanting them to become mere sacrifices to Dutch's increasingly unhinged ideas. He understood Dutch, understood him deeply; he had originally thought Dutch had truly changed, that his pursuit of civilization was genuine. But looking at Dutch's behavior now, his obsessive construction, he suddenly realized Dutch hadn't changed at all, not in his fundamental nature. After all, if he truly wanted to go legitimate, Dutch could completely do so with his current identity and strength, buying his way into society.

But he didn't pay the cost to legitimize them; instead, he continued to use his outlaw identity as a convenient excuse to rally the Van der Linde Gang together, forcing them to follow him as he constantly carried out his new, increasingly absurd plans. How was this any different from Dutch's constant, insidious talk of "one more score," the endless pursuit of an elusive peace?

"Oh, Hosea, you're thinking too much, old friend. You're always so pessimistic, always inclined to compromise; that's an undesirable thought, a weakness!" Dutch looked at the dawning expression on Hosea's face and his words, knowing that he had truly misunderstood Dutch's grand, terrifying vision. "The best defense is offense, Hosea. We may not attack overtly, but we cannot pin our hopes on the tolerance of others, on their fleeting goodwill. Perhaps we can go legitimate now, perhaps we can indeed transform into philanthropic businessmen like Signor Bronte, buying our way into their society. But what if someone higher up, a Senator, a magnate, wants to continue pursuing you, wants to strip you of your newfound wealth?

What if someone higher up envies your profits and uses your hidden outlaw identity to target you, to crush you? Hosea, at that point, we would truly have nowhere to go, nowhere to run! Building your safety on the tolerance of others is not wisdom; it is the greatest cowardice, the most fatal flaw! Perhaps in your eyes, I am still acting in defiance of the times, a madman railing against the wind, but only one sentence is true, Hosea: 'Weapons in our own hands give us the initiative! Absolute control!'"

"Damn it, you old man, you haven't become sentimental because you're getting old, have you?" Dutch said with a laugh, a rare, playful glint in his eye, affectionately patting Hosea's shoulder. This was indeed one of Hosea's few shortcomings; he was old, and he tended to be conservative, much like Chief Rains Fall of the doomed Indians.

"Perhaps so," Hosea sighed, a profound weariness in his voice. "I just, I just don't want these children to be unable to escape future conflicts, to be consumed by your ambition." Hosea was different from Dutch; Dutch would never, ever admit his mistakes, his flaws, not publicly. But Hosea would openly admit his, his vulnerabilities, which was why he was so deeply, universally respected by the gang.