No biggie

The grand cruise dinner, a symphony of opulence and calculated networking, eventually concluded amidst the effervescent laughter and polite chatter of Saint Denis's elite. As the first pale rays of dawn kissed the horizon, the dense throng of upper-class revelers began to disembark, their meticulously coiffed hair slightly askew, their expressions a curious blend of post-party weariness and a distinct air of self-satisfaction. A night of questionable sleep, after all, was practically a half-death sentence for these delicate souls.

Only the indefatigable members of the Van der Linde Gang, accustomed to the nocturnal rhythms of their… profession… seemed unaffected, their usual swagger undiminished. For all other guests, however, the toll was evident: a noticeable decline in their usual pristine mental and physical states. Nevertheless, for each of them, it had been a profoundly worthwhile soiree, a strategic investment in their social and financial capital.

Especially for the astute businessmen who had so eagerly purchased those coveted 'VDL' Clothing Store memberships; they would, without a doubt, return to their ventures with a new Rolodex of connections. One particular gentleman, who had cannily brought both his charming wife and fetching daughter, had already secured a fresh batch of lucrative orders, no doubt capitalizing on the latter's… charms.

"Oh, Mr. Van der Linde, this dinner was truly… divine!" gushed a gentleman, his eyes still glazed over from the night's indulgences. "And Mr. Newson's wife and daughter… they truly left a lasting impression! I find myself utterly, breathlessly, anticipating the next banquet!"

"Hahahaha, Mr. Van der Linde!" another chimed in, swaying slightly. "Your hospitality is simply unparalleled! I predict with utmost certainty that the sales of your clothing store memberships will skyrocket to an entirely new height in the coming weeks!"

Dutch, ever the consummate host, stood arm-in-arm with Miss O'Shea at the cruise ship's gangplank, a picture of beaming benevolence. Their smiles remained unwavering, radiating warmth and gratitude as they bid farewell to each departing guest, soaking in the effusive praises like thirsty sponges.

Anyone familiar with the Saint Denis port from the old days would recall its stark reality: a place devoid of much else beyond a teeming mass of the desperate. Those who struggled daily for their next meal, and the unending stream of undocumented immigrants fleeing the harsh realities of other countries, all converged here. The port and the train station, inextricably linked, offered a raw, unceasing demand for manual labor, a lifeline for those clinging to the margins of existence.

At this moment, the impeccably dressed, nobly posturing ladies and gentlemen disembarking from the opulent cruise ship were a blinding spectacle, a dazzling beacon amidst the squalor of the port.

They drew the gaze of the surrounding poor like moths to a flame, their eyes wide with a mixture of envy and awe, though they dared not stare for more than a fleeting moment. For the grandiosity of the figures disembarking was undeniable, their esteemed positions within Saint Denis's hierarchy underscored by the watchful presence of specially assigned police officers, discreetly ensuring their security.

Such a magnificent tableau was, predictably, a magnet for attention. It even drew many gentlemen who had previously been too timid, or perhaps too dismissive, to purchase a 'VDL' Clothing Store membership for the banquet. Now, they quietly, almost shamefacedly, squeezed into the surrounding crowds, their necks craning, their eyes devouring the scene before them. When they witnessed the influential figures, the very titans of Saint Denis, disembarking, their faces radiating an undeniable aura of satisfaction, and saw the businessmen, clearly having benefited immensely, sporting uniform, triumphant smiles, a powerful cocktail of envy and profound regret churned within them.

"Oh, for heaven's sake! Old Jason must've hit the motherlode! Just look at the ridiculous grin plastered all over his face!" one portly merchant groaned, slapping his forehead. "Blast it all! I should've thought of it earlier! If only I'd swallowed my pride and bought a 'VDL' Clothing Store membership back then, I'd be swimming in profit right now! Oh, the sheer, unadulterated idiocy!"

"Quick, Jessica, quick!" another frantically whispered to his companion, almost shoving her. "Dash to the 'VDL' Clothing Store and buy a membership! Now! I missed this banquet, and that damn Carlo, my insufferable rival, will surely seize this opportunity to leapfrog ahead of me! Look at that smug smile, curse him! He's positively radiating success, I tell you!"

"Good heavens! Those… those great families actually came! How in the world did the 'VDL' Clothing Store manage to entice so many important figures?!" another exclaimed, his voice laced with disbelief and dawning alarm. "Damn it all, we utterly miscalculated! Hurry, hurry, buy a membership for the 'VDL' Clothing Store immediately!"

More and more people, mostly businessmen who had dismissed the initial whispers as mere rumors, now stood outside the port, witnessing the undeniable proof of Dutch's burgeoning influence. This "confirmation," far from diminishing the 'VDL' Clothing Store's reputation, instead propelled its name into the stratosphere of Saint Denis legend.

Indeed, this one cruise dinner had, with startling efficiency, fundamentally altered the primary sales target of the 'VDL' Clothing Store. Previously, its allure had stemmed from the sheer novelty and exquisite beauty of its garments. Now, however, its most potent selling point, its irresistible siren song, was the promise of those exclusive, glittering dinner parties!

Such opportunities – to rub shoulders with influential figures, to forge lucrative business connections, to hobnob with other captains of industry – were simply too crucial, too utterly indispensable. Most people, in their everyday lives, lacked such avenues entirely. And these 'VDL' Clothing Store dinners were now providing that very access, democratizing opportunity, one opulent banquet at a time.

In the immediate aftermath of this monumental dinner, 'VDL' Clothing Store memberships began to be purchased with a fervor bordering on hysteria. Not only did ambitious businessmen clamor for this golden ticket, but minor political leaders, heads of various municipal departments, even humble clerks with grand aspirations – all yearned for entry. Perhaps, they mused, the very person they wished to ingratiate themselves with, the key to their own promotion, would appear at the next dinner!

In essence, the 'VDL' Clothing Store had officially begun its magnificent, strategic transformation into a high-end luxury brand, though it wisely retained its foothold in the lucrative low-end market. However, these grand, sweeping changes would, like all great endeavors, require the slow, inexorable march of time to fully unfold.

As for Dutch, the mastermind behind this meticulously orchestrated social ascent, he promptly gathered Arthur, Miss O'Shea, and Madam Morgan, and departed Saint Denis, returning to the comforting familiarity of Hope Happiness Ranch.

Time, that fickle mistress, continued its steady passage, and three days whisked by in a blur of anticipation. At this very moment, Hope Ranch was abuzz with activity, registering a fresh cohort of gunmen, a robust new batch personally escorted by the ever-resourceful Mr. Trelawny.

This latest crop comprised seasoned, retired veterans, their faces etched with the quiet wisdom of battles fought and survived. Indeed, during this period, not only were the women's rights movement and the 'VDL' Clothing Store booming, but the Veteran Club in Valentine had also exploded in popularity. Its fame had spread like wildfire, reaching not only veterans across New Hanover but extending its tendrils into the far-flung towns of Strawberry and Blackwater in West Elizabeth, and even the established cities of Rhodes and Saint Denis in Lemoyne.

This burgeoning reputation had triggered a continuous, almost overwhelming, influx of veterans. Now, at least twenty seasoned gunmen could be selected and inducted into Hope Ranch each week, a steady stream of hardened muscle. These chosen few would then be swiftly transported to the secluded Vulture Ranch for a specialized, rigorous training regimen, honing their skills to a razor's edge.

While Mr. Trelawny was engaged in earnest conversation with Mr. Strauss, the meticulous keeper of records, three carriages slowly, purposefully, approached from the distant horizon, rolling towards the main entrance of Hope Happiness Ranch. They then smoothly drove into the ranch, the grim-faced gunmen stationed at the entrance offering respectful, almost military, salutes.

"Dutch! Arthur! The machines have finally been transported back!" Hosea's voice, brimming with a mixture of relief and exhaustion, echoed from outside the sturdy wooden cabin.

"Dutch, my dear friend!" Mr. Marko's voice, equally weary but relieved, followed closely behind.

"Oh, Hosea! Marko! Damn, you're finally back!" Dutch exclaimed, striding out of the wooden cabin, his face alight with genuine emotion as he gazed at the two men slumped in the carriage. "How was the journey, old friends? Any… unpleasantness along the way?"

Davey and Mac, their faces grim, who had been responsible for the perilous escort of the precious machines and the protection of the carriages, now walked over, their shoulders slumping with fatigue.

"Oh, Dutch, this trip was indeed… a bit dicey," Davey admitted, his voice hoarse. His face was unusually grim, and flecks of dried blood – unmistakably the enemy's – still clung to his clothes, though he himself appeared miraculously uninjured.

"We were ambushed by a pack of those damn savages in the woods near Van Horn Trading Post! Shit, if it weren't for these two magnificent machines, those incoming bullets would have surely found old Hosea's heart!" He shuddered at the thought.

"Oh, f*ck!" Dutch cursed, a surge of genuine concern flooding his face. He quickly moved to Hosea's side, grabbing his shoulders and meticulously examining him from left to right, his eyes scanning for any sign of injury. "Hosea, old friend, are you hurt?!"

Hosea, despite the harrowing encounter, let out a hearty, relieved laugh. "No, Dutch! Don't you fret! I'm too stubborn to die so early! Our lives have just begun to truly… bloom! I haven't even had a proper chance to savor it yet, have I?! Hahahaha!" His booming laughter, however, was clearly an attempt to comfort Dutch, who finally allowed himself a sigh of relief.

But at that very moment, Arthur, who had just emerged from the wooden cabin, was a picture of unadulterated fury.

"OH, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!" Arthur roared, his face contorted into a mask of pure rage. "Dutch, I swear to God, I'm going to personally exterminate every last one of those damn Murfree Brood!" He cursed, his voice thick with a murderous intent.

He lunged towards the hitching post, his hand reaching for his horse's reins, but Dutch, with surprising swiftness, intercepted him.

"No, Arthur, not yet, my son!" Dutch's voice was firm, brooking no argument. He grabbed Arthur by the arm, holding him in place. "The Murfree Brood will undoubtedly perish by our hands, that much is certain! But now, my impulsive friend, is not the time!

Remember what I've always said? Revenge, Arthur, is the most foolish, the most blinding, of all human impulses! We must never allow our minds to be clouded by such base desires; every single action we take must serve a grander, more calculated purpose!" Dutch lectured him earnestly, his grip unwavering.

A fleeting thought crossed Arthur's mind: Damn it, that was supposed to be my line!

"Listen, Arthur, listen to Dutch," Hosea chimed in, his own face serious now. "Dutch has a plan, you know. A magnificen plan. Once this plan is complete, my boy, we'll have absolutely nothing to worry about! Not a single, blasted thing!" Hosea, it seemed, had now become Dutch's most fervent, most unwavering disciple; whatever Dutch pronounced, Hosea unequivocally declared to be gospel truth.