Hound

"Alright, Dutch, what's your… brilliant idea this time?" John grunted, a dull, almost vacant nod accompanying his words. His brow was furrowed in that perpetually confused expression, like a dog trying to understand quantum physics. H

e wouldn't—couldn't—refute Dutch, not really, nor did he even flinch when Dutch slapped him with a ridiculous nickname. That, perhaps, was the purest, most unshakeable form of his loyalty. Or perhaps he was just perpetually half-asleep.

"Shit! Marston, I swear, you're getting dumber than a sack of hammers!" It wasn't Dutch who unleashed the verbal volley, but Arthur, his face contorted in a theatrical expression of utter despair. He ran a hand down his face, dragging it over his stubble.

"My goodness, I've seen mushrooms with higher intelligence than yours!" Arthur shook his head slowly, a mournful, sorrowful gaze fixed on John, as if witnessing a beloved pet slowly losing its marbles.

John's jaw dropped, then snapped shut with an audible click. His face flushed a deep crimson, and he jabbed a furious finger at Arthur. "Shit, Arthur Morgan! Do you have nothing else to focus on besides turning me into your personal punchbag?" He threw his hands up in exasperation, his voice rising in volume. "My goodness, every blessed day you're either fretting over my pathetic existence or dissecting my meager intelligence! Can't you just… for one damn minute… focus on your own self-important hide?!"

Arthur merely smirked, a wolfish glint in his eyes. He crossed his arms, leaning back slightly. "You just don't understand, Marston," he drawled, shaking his head with mock pity, "this is called concern! Deep, abiding, utterly relentless concern!"

"Alright, then I sincerely hope your 'concern' will soon be directed squarely at your own miserable existence instead of staring at my damn face every day!" John snorted, turning his back with a huff, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He was truly fed up. Ever since his ill-fated departure and subsequent return to the gang, Arthur had waged a relentless campaign of psychological warfare, either subtly jabbing or openly ridiculing him.

In the game, Dutch's manipulation and shifting allegiances would eventually force a begrudging reconciliation between them. But here, with Dutch's charismatic leadership still unsullied, Arthur's resentment festered, growing day by day. The root of it was simple, yet profound: Arthur's son and his lover had been violently ripped from him, leaving a gaping wound in his soul. John, on the other hand, had a wife and child, yet seemed to treat them with a casual neglect that Arthur found utterly infuriating. These two clashing realities created the simmering tension that perpetually hung between them.

Arthur, began to heal, of of course, but taking jabs at John just became second nature.A habit...

"Enough!" Dutch roared, his voice cracking like a whip. He slapped his hands together with a sharp crack that echoed down the street. "Arthur! John! I did not haul your sorry asses out to Rhodes just so you could reenact some goddamn barnyard brawl! Damn it! You two make me want to pull my hair out and beat myself senseless with it!

Arthur, bite your tongue! John, for the love of all that is holy, can't you just ignore him?! Oh, shit! One day, you two are going to make me die of sheer anger!" He looked genuinely distraught, throwing his hands up in a dramatic gesture of defeat.

Arthur, of course, was notorious for his viper's tongue, a talent well-demonstrated by his cutting remarks even in the original timeline. The thought of him muttering, "Don't forget the twenty-five cents," to Dutch in a moment of crisis was enough to imagine Dutch's blood pressure skyrocketing.

Charles, the quiet observer, watched the chaotic interplay between the three men, a slow, gentle smile spreading across his usually solemn face. Perhaps this was precisely why he had chosen to remain with the Van der Linde Gang.

The American landscape was crawling with countless gangs, groups, and desperate collectives. He had encountered hundreds, seen their cruelties, their rigid hierarchies, their cold indifference. But not a single one had ever offered him this profound, aching sense of home that he found with Dutch. Here, there was no discrimination, no oppressive rules etched in stone. They gathered to eat, to drink, to sing off-key, to dance badly.

Yes, they did 'bad things,' but they never preyed on the innocent, never slaughtered civilians. They were a bizarre, boisterous, often dysfunctional family, overflowing with laughter, petty squabbles, and the mundane trivialities of everyday life. This raw, vibrant atmosphere had, against all odds, moved Charles to his very core. This was the long-lost warmth of a family, resurrected from the ashes of his past.

"Alright, gentlemen, let's get down to business," Dutch declared, his gaze hardening, all traces of exasperation gone. He clapped his hands together once more, a signal for attention. "Arthur, Charles, you two will be commencing the… surgical procedure… on the Gray Family. John, you'll be joining me for a delightful little visit to the Braithwaite family. My request is simple, direct, and non-negotiable: every single person who needs to be killed, will be killed. No more, no less. Alright, let's begin our work!" His eyes glittered with a dangerous, almost manic enthusiasm.

Arthur and Charles exchanged a quick, knowing glance, a silent acknowledgment of the grim task ahead. They nodded sharply, then turned and began walking, their strides purposeful, towards the ostentatious saloon that marked Braithwaite territory.

Before the bloodbath, there was intelligence to be gathered. They needed to ascertain the Gray Family's numbers, their key players, their habits. And the Braithwaite saloon, a veritable hive of Rhodes's upper crust, was undoubtedly the ideal vantage point for their reconnaissance.

Meanwhile, Dutch, a predatory glint in his eyes, tugged at John's sleeve, pulling him towards the sprawling, formidable Braithwaite Manor.

The Gray Family was a trickier target. Their tendrils extended beyond their opulent Manor, deeply embedded throughout Rhodes, and even, disturbingly, into the Saint Denis Government itself. However, Dutch wasn't aiming for total eradication, just a strategically decisive blow.

Eliminating the core leadership, the majority of their personnel, would be sufficient. The remaining scattered members would be too weak, too disorganized, to effectively control Rhodes.

The Braithwaite family, conversely, was a much cleaner cut. Their key members, their very heart, was largely confined within their sprawling Manor. Decapitate the Manor, and the entire snake would wither and die. Furthermore, their staunch support of the Democrats of the Southern Government had, ironically, caused their power base to shrink. Beyond that gaudy saloon, they had few, if any, other boltholes.

Thus, while Arthur and Charles were on a reconnaissance mission, John and Dutch were moving directly to the kill.

After a brisk hour of riding and strategic maneuvering, Dutch and John finally emerged from the shadowy fringe of the woods, Braithwaite Manor looming before them.

It was, in reality, far more magnificent, far grander and more intimidating, than its pixelated counterpart in the game. These two ancient families, their roots stretching back through generations, had diverged during the American Civil War, their ideological differences hardening into bitter, personal enmity. This rivalry had escalated into outright hostility when a clandestine gold burial by a couple from opposing families led to endless, paranoid suspicion between the clans.

Yet, despite their mutual hatred, both families had sunk their roots deep into the soil of Rhodes, intertwining with its very fabric. One enjoyed the discreet backing of the current state government; the other, the brutal, unofficial support of the Lemoyne Raiders. Consequently, neither side could truly deliver a killing blow to the other.

Assassinating the direct bloodlines of these two powerful families would undoubtedly send shockwaves through the Saint Denis Government. Suspicions, Dutch knew, would immediately fall upon the Van der Linde Gang. After all, once they settled in Rhodes, the gang would be the obvious, opportunistic beneficiaries. Their reputation, their unique 'skill set,' would definitely point fingers their way.

However, this was precisely Dutch's second objective: to send a chilling, unmistakable warning to certain other powerful families lurking in Saint Denis.

Assassination was a different beast entirely from open warfare. Even if the authorities suspected the Van der Linde Gang, concrete evidence would be as elusive as a ghost. And even if, by some divine misfortune, they did unearth hard proof, it would be largely useless. The two families in Rhodes, for all their localized power, were not Mr. Cornwall.

They were certainly not Signor Bronte. Their political weight, their influence, simply wasn't enough for the Lemoyne State Government to bother amending laws, to grant Pinkerton Detectives carte blanche to enforce laws across state lines.

Furthermore, the Van der Linde Gang's primary base of operations wasn't Lemoyne State; it was firmly entrenched in New Hanover. And in New Hanover, specifically Valentine, Sheriff Malloy – a man who was quietly enjoying his town's newfound prosperity – would certainly not permit Pinkerton interference on his patch.

So, even if Dutch were to stride into Saint Denis and openly declare, "Yes, we did it! We gut-shot the Grays and the Braithwaites ourselves!" these self-important dignitaries would be utterly powerless to touch them.

As for dispatching the Lemoyne State police? Dutch scoffed internally. Don't be ridiculous. This entire, brutal assassination wasn't just about clearing real estate. It was a cold, calculated message, a deadly deterrent aimed squarely at these damned, self-important upper-class nobles.

It was a warning whispered in the dead of night: be careful, gentlemen, of your words, of your actions, lest you too find a silent blade at your throat in the dark.

Ultimately, it all boiled down to the primitive state of technology in this era, the surprising weakness of the nascent American army, and the frustratingly loose grip of the Federal Government. All of which, for Dutch, translated into glorious, wide-open maneuverability.

"Alright, John," Dutch whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, his eyes glinting with a dangerous excitement. They had halted their horses deep within the concealing shadows of the woods, the sprawling manor now just a silent, imposing silhouette against the twilight sky. "Let's begin the operation, son." With a practiced flick of his wrist, Dutch produced a handful of throwing knives, their blades catching the last dying light, and a taut, ready bow from his saddlebag.

John, his own face now grim and focused, mirrored Dutch's movements, drawing his own knives and bow.

"Full assassination, John," Dutch instructed, his voice dropping to an almost imperceptible murmur, thick with deadly intent. He looked John directly in the eye, a silent, grim pact passing between them. "We need to make the Braithwaite family… die silently." Then, with a fluid, almost theatrical gesture, he reached up and pulled his bandana over the lower half of his face, transforming him instantly into a faceless harbinger of doom.

"Okay, Dutch," John responded, his voice equally hushed, a grim resolve now etched onto his features. He pulled his own bandana up, obscuring his face. The two men melted into the deepening shadows, slipping into the Braithwaite Manor from the hidden sanctuary of the fruit orchard behind. The hunt had begun.