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But now, this single, desperate window of opportunity was being slammed shut, not by their enemies, but by the very kin Rain Falls sought to save.

Rain Falls exhaled a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a hundred lost generations, his shoulders slumping just a fraction. He gazed at the defiant dozen before him, their faces contorted with a fury so pure, so potent, it might have been forged in the crucible of their ancestors' rage. Their eyes, blazing with an almost suicidal hatred, met his weary ones.

"You are all good children," Rain Falls began, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, heavy with sorrow that seemed to seep from his very bones. He stretched out a hand, a gesture of profound empathy. "I understand your hearts, my sons, because once, long ago, my own heart beat with that very same fire." A faint, bitter smile touched his lips, quickly vanishing.

"From the time I was a boy, no taller than your youngest, until the grey hairs began to thread through my braids at forty winters, I lived in an unending struggle. The hatred then… that was a true inferno, a conflict that dwarfed this current flicker. They poured onto our lands like a plague, butchering our people, defiling our sacred grounds. And we… we took their scalps, hung them high to whisper our defiance. We raided their settlements, hoping to drive terror into their hearts.

But what did we gain? Not a whisper of retreat, but a torrent of insane, bloodthirsty retaliation." He clenched a fist, his knuckles white. "We clashed with them, year after year, decade after decade. Countless tribes vanished into the dust, countless of our brothers and sisters became nothing but silent earth. This cycle of violence, this unending river of blood… it flowed for a hundred years, and it brought us to the very precipice of annihilation." He paused, his gaze sweeping over each young, angry face. "This struggle, my children, will never find a victor. We are on the verge of fading into the wind, utterly extinct."

He ran a hand over his face, a gesture of profound exhaustion. "So many years of fighting… they have drained me, left me hollowed out, without a single spark of that old fire. But they have also burned one truth into my very soul: the world has changed. We are shadows of a bygone era, abandoned by the old ways. There is no victory left for us here."

His voice dropped to a plea, raw and desperate. "We can no longer bear the pain of war. I… I cannot bear to watch our tribe vanish forever. And so, integrating with them… it has become the only path, the only desperate prayer for our survival." His eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, pleaded with them.

"Children, our spirits are broken. Our bodies are tired. We simply cannot endure war any longer."

Rain Falls's face, usually stoic, was now a roadmap of ancient sorrows. He was a man who had not just lived through turbulent times, he was the turbulent times, etched onto living skin. Compared to the genocidal horrors of the past, this current era, despite its cruelties, almost felt like a brief, suffocating peace.

Spain, he remembered, had massacred thirteen million of their ancestors, cutting them down until resistance was no more than a forgotten dream.

As Rain Falls's sorrowful voice hung in the air, a heavy shroud, Bear watched the numb, haunted faces of the women huddled behind their Chief, and the small, terrified eyes of the children clinging to their mothers' skirts.

A dam broke within him. His own eyes, usually fierce and dry, welled up, a single, fat tear tracing a path through the dust on his cheek.

"You… you should go," he choked out, his voice thick with unshed emotion. He turned his head away, unable to meet Rain Falls's gaze.

"No! You cannot stay here!" Flying Eagle finally burst out, stepping forward, his arm outstretched as if to physically bar Bear's path. His eyes were wide with a fierce, protective sorrow. "Bear, the tribe still needs you! There's no chance for you here! You'll only be cut down by the United States Army when they return!"

"No!" Bear roared, spinning back to face them, his face a mask of resolute pain. He pointed a trembling finger at Flying Eagle. "You go! All of you, hurry and go! Just as I said, Flying Eagle! I choose to die standing! This… this is my last wish!"

He took one last, agonizing look at the sorrowful faces of his tribesmen behind Rain Falls, his gaze lingering on each one, memorizing their features. Then, with a grunt of pain that tore through him, he spun on his heel, mounted his horse with a desperate leap, and galloped away, kicking up a cloud of red dust.

The dozen or so defiant warriors, their faces grim, followed closely behind him, their horses thundering. As they rode into the fading light, their eyes held no bitterness, no resentment, only an infinite, heartbreaking attachment to their tribe, and the stark, chilling finality of a farewell.

They were right, of course. People made different choices. Some embraced the bitter glory of a standing death, others chose the equally bitter path of living by adapting, no matter the cost.

Rain Falls watched their receding figures until they were no more than distant specks, his eyes brimming with a sorrow that few could comprehend.

He slowly turned, his gaze falling upon Flying Eagle and the rest of his tribe, a fresh determination hardening his ancient features.

"My son," he said, his voice now firm, tinged with a new, quiet hope. "Go. Go with haste with the others back. Mr. Van der Linde… he might truly be our last chance. The way they look at us, the way he looks at us, is different from other Americans. He… he is a different kind of snake, perhaps." A wry, weary smile. "As for the rest of you, start packing. It's time for us to leave!"

At Rain Falls's command, a ripple of movement spread through the Indian encampment. With a heavy mix of apprehension for an uncertain future, a crushing worry for what lay ahead, and a faint, almost imperceptible glimmer of desperate hope, they began to move. Leaving their ancestral homeland behind, they set their faces towards the distant, ironically named 'Hope Ranch.'

Dutch wondered aloud what expression Charles would make when he saw this unexpected procession. But Charles, at this very moment, couldn't see them. He was squeezed onto a rattling train car with Dutch, Arthur, and John, the clack-clack-clack of the rails carrying them inexorably towards Rhodes.

After a seemingly endless day on the train, the quartet finally disembarked, their legs stiff. What greeted them was not the fresh country air, but the pervasive, cloying stench of marijuana, hanging in the humid air like a thick, unwelcome blanket. It was their first true arrival in Rhodes.

Even when setting up the clothing store or planning the Bronte caper, they had skirted the edges, Ms. Dorothea handling the Rhodes affairs from afar. Only Sean and Javier, during their initial scouting, had ever truly stepped foot in this place.

Given its close proximity to Saint Denis, Rhodes had an air of almost-prosperity, a subtle sheen. It wasn't the boisterous, dusty chaos of Valentine, but the air felt noticeably… cleaner, or at least, less muddy.

What immediately assaulted their eyes was not just the utilitarian post office near the station, but the undeniably opulent, three-story saloon. It loomed above the other buildings like a gaudy jewel, practically screaming "old money."

This, of course, was a Braithwaite enterprise, its extravagant façade a loud declaration of their family's immense wealth. And because of their eternal, simmering blood feud with the Gray Family, it was conspicuously outside the official town limits. After all, the Grays had Rhodes itself in a stranglehold.

Dutch, ever the showman, swaggered down the main thoroughfare, Arthur, John, and Charles trailing behind him, drawing a few lazy, glazed-over glances from the passing residents.

"Look, Arthur, John, Charles!" Dutch declared, throwing his arms wide as if presenting a grand, rotting masterpiece. He jabbed a finger at a particularly slumped figure leaning against a lamppost.

"This is Rhodes! Just look at them, these 'citizens'! Every last one of them either swigging rotgut or puffing on that damned weed! God, this place isn't just corrupt, it's utterly rotten to the core!" He wrinkled his nose in genuine disgust, a theatrical shudder running through him.

Arthur, John, and Charles had already taken in the depressing tableau, their eyes scanning the streets with a practiced efficiency. The games, for all their detail, couldn't quite capture the gritty reality.

Here, it was painfully obvious: the Braithwaite and Gray families didn't just control Rhodes; they owned its very soul, holding it hostage with two classic vices: alcohol and marijuana.

They'd ensnared the town's populace, recruiting them to churn out illegal moonshine and cultivate endless fields of marijuana, paying them paltry wages.

Then, in a sickeningly perfect loop, those very wages flowed right back into the families' coffers, buying the very poison they helped produce. It was a self-sustaining cycle of addiction and exploitation.

Any excess booze or weed? Pure, untaxed profit for the two ruling clans. Essentially, everyone in Rhodes was working for free, shackled by a triple chain: moonshine, marijuana, and the illusion of money.

This was the dark secret to their deep entrenchment, their unshakeable grip on this town for so many years.

Even the local constabulary, from the grizzled sheriff to the prostitutes and the desperate beggars, were either direct puppets of these families or, in a twisted irony, actual blood relatives.

This was the deep, festering corruption Dutch had ranted about, the reason he declared Rhodes "utterly rotten." Right now, almost everyone visible on the streets was either a Gray Family 'employee' – toiling away on some dubious chore – or simply slumped somewhere, either drowning in cheap whiskey or lost in a haze of marijuana smoke.

It was also why Saint Denis, surprisingly, lacked the sprawling saloons and brothels you'd expect; Rhodes was already the designated cesspool for that particular brand of depravity.

"Shit!" Arthur suddenly growled, spitting a thick gob of phleg onto the dusty ground, a sound of profound revulsion. He scrubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand, a twitch in his jaw.

"I used to think that 'decapitation plan' sounded a bit… extreme. But now?"

He looked around, nostrils flaring.

"Now it just sounds like good, clean fun! These damned two families should just go straight to hell!" He felt his throat itch, his lungs burning with the lingering fumes. Just a few minutes here, and he felt like his nostrils were packed with rotten weed; he could only imagine the utter mess this place had become.

"Yeah, this place… it makes me feel disgusted," Charles muttered, his usually impassive dark face showing a rare flicker of raw anger. His fists, usually relaxed, clenched almost imperceptibly at his sides.

"So, Dutch," John piped up, his raspy voice cutting through the thick air like a rusty saw blade, a strangely eager glint in his eye. He tilted his head, a gesture of earnest inquiry. "Is just killing their direct descendants… really enough? This town… it feels unsettling, doesn't it? Wouldn't killing more be… better?" He delivered the question with the innocent sincerity of Dutch's most devoted fanboy, utterly without a shred of doubt. In those early days, John would have followed Dutch right off a cliff if he'd suggested it.

"Oh, Werewolf!" Dutch exclaimed, throwing his hands up in an exaggerated gesture of horror, stepping back as if John had just suggested a picnic with a grizzly bear. He patted the air frantically. "Your… your murderous intent is truly terrifying, son!"

A strained chuckle escaped him. "No, son, no! We don't need to paint the town red with quite that much bloodshed. After all, once we've rid the place of them, we'll be moving in! Goodness, John, you've been far too… bloodthirsty lately!"

'Werewolf,' of course, was Arthur's affectionate, slightly mocking nickname for John, a constant reminder of that unfortunate incident with the pack of wild dogs back in the Grizzlies.