'Savior'

The Rhodes incident, a brutal display of orchestrated chaos, had already sent tremors of disbelief through the gilded halls of Saint Denis. But with Dutch and his merry band of 'peacekeepers' returning to the scene, essentially doubling down on their audacious declaration, the news once again struck the Saint Denis aristocracy like a well-aimed cannonball to the gut. They sputtered into their brandy, aghast.

The social stratification of this era was a tangled, unpredictable mess, especially out here in the wild, wild West. Saint Denis, bless its pompous heart, had been established as a shining beacon of 'civilization,' an urban oasis untouched by the crude savagery of outlaws for nearly a decade. This place was supposed to be controlled by rules, by gentlemen, by politeness! All decent outlaws, the ones with a modicum of sense, were supposed to run West, not boldly, terrifyingly, prance East into their drawing rooms!

Therefore, the powerful, self-important figures of Saint Denis had almost entirely forgotten the raw, untamed dominance of true Western cowboys.

And the bloody, thunderous spectacle in Rhodes had delivered a brutal, unforgettable lesson straight to their entitled faces. The message was screamed from every smoking ruin: The Van der Linde Gang is not Signor Bronte. They are not a sophisticated, city-slicker criminal enterprise. No, sir! They are a pack of howling Western cowboys, actual, honest-to-God outlaws!

And Western cowboys, as these shocked aristocrats were now learning, do not play by the rules. Even Dutch Van der Linde, the smooth-talking charmer trying to shimmy his way into Saint Denis's upper crust, never, ever played by their rules. He played by his own.

That day, Saint Denis was a city of sputtering rage. Several prominent families, their faces apoplectic, began to frantically badger, pressure, and outright demand that the Saint Denis Government launch a full-scale, righteous war against the encroaching menace that was the Van der Linde Gang. They wanted blood, they wanted retribution, and they wanted it now.

But the Saint Denis Government, bless its corrupt, spineless heart, could do precisely nothing! The police officers in the station, those pampered bodyguards of the rich, were utterly useless, paralyzed by bureaucratic inertia and a complete lack of legitimate reason to act. Currently, there was no way, no legal loophole, no flimsy excuse, to convict Dutch Van der Linde as the actual murderer of the two prominent families in Rhodes.

Nor, to their absolute fury, could they legally convict him as the commander of that terrifying, Maxim gun-toting mob. After all, they hadn't done a single thing after they arrived; they hadn't even fired a single shot! (That tiny detail about orchestrating the whole bloody mess was, of course, conveniently omitted).

This reason, flimsy as a moth-eaten cobweb, was the official explanation, carefully crafted based on Mr. Dutch Van der Linde's newly acquired, infuriatingly legitimate status. To put it bluntly, if Dutch were still just a ragtag leader of a dirt-poor gang, the Saint Denis police would have already dispatched every available man to encircle, capture, and hang the entire Van der Linde Gang from the nearest lamppost.

But today, Dutch was different. He boasted flourishing industries in various towns, including a respectable clothing shop right there in Saint Denis. He had, to their utter bewilderment, cultivated connections with many important figures, some of whom were even, gasp, loyal customers of his shops! He now possessed both status and strength.

And the sheer audacity of his Rhodes 'cleanup' alone, featuring three Maxim guns, sent a shiver down the spine of the Saint Denis Government, making them profoundly hesitant to provoke him.

Furthermore, and this was the truly maddening part, the Lemieux Family, the Heidi Family, and the Wicklow Family were all secretly throwing their weight behind Mr. Van der Linde. Mayor Mr. Lemieux himself was practically Dutch's drinking buddy!

How could he possibly be judged? This was the infuriating 'explanation' based on Mr. Dutch Van der Linde's infuriatingly inconvenient status. And it was also why these powerful families clung to the most minute, absurd details like a drowning man to a twig. Damn it, if they didn't cling to details, they might be the ones next in line for a silent, fiery 'cleanup.'

Currently, the United States Federal Government's control barely extended beyond a polite handshake. In the East, perhaps, if something truly catastrophic occurred, one could whine to the Federal Government for assistance. But in the untamed West? If you wanted help from the Feds, you'd have to pack a lunch and a lifetime supply of patience.

Even a generation later, godforsaken Armadillo couldn't get a decent cop to deal with its gangs, and the top brass offered precisely zero support. Because the entire West was a law unto itself, a chaotic, unmanageable beast.

Moreover, these self-important Western aristocrats would never, ever seek help from the Federal Government anyway, not truly. That would dilute their own precious power, like watering down a fine whiskey. The Federal Government had long yearned to extend its greedy fingers into the rich, untamed West, but the old slave owners, those stubborn, defiant bastions of bygone eras, hadn't all died out.

They were still relentlessly resisting the Federal Government's encroaching regime, and the Lemoyne Raiders, with their brutal efficiency, were simply the sharpened knives in the hands of these old, embittered men.

So, after the Rhodes incident sent a collective gasp and a torrent of furious whispers through Saint Denis, it suddenly, inexplicably, vanished without a trace. The heated discussions completely evaporated, as if the Rhodes incident had never even existed. It was a mass amnesia, a polite, terrified silence.

At this very moment, Dutch and his core group were basking in the glorious chaos of Shady Belle. The sun was bright, beating down with a benevolent warmth, and its scorching rays mercifully reduced the ever-present humidity in the air, allowing the perpetually damp Shady Belle to finally breathe a delicious, fleeting sigh of dryness.

Wagons, groaning under the weight of newly acquired sewing machines, slowly rumbled through Shady Belle's gates. The recently transported worker families, their faces alight with eager anticipation, rushed to the stopped wagons, practically tripping over themselves to unload the precious sewing machines, one by one, like long-lost treasures.

During this period, with the sudden deluge of wholesale orders for their burgeoning clothing factory, the production capacity in Valentine, and even the initially booming Shady Belle, was almost comically unable to keep up. Therefore, Dutch, with a satisfied grin, had swiftly recruited two hundred more nimble-fingered female workers from Valentine to ensure a truly torrential flow of production. The machinery of this era, bless its primitive heart, was not exactly cutting-edge, so a lagging production capacity was simply the delightful norm.

The sun shone brightly, casting long, dancing shadows, and Shady Belle hummed with a vibrant, bustling energy, almost feeling like a second, glorious headquarters. In fact, this was precisely Dutch's cunning, meticulous plan. Develop Shady Belle into a formidable second headquarters, then, like a grand puppet master, extend his influence and seize Van Horn Trading Post, establishing it as his third, equally formidable headquarters. These two strategic locations also conveniently corresponded to two crucial ports, allowing him to completely control the vital transport of goods, a silent, unseen stranglehold on the region's commerce.

Dutch's gaze, sharp and calculating, was fixed on the crumpled map in his hand, a pen scribbling furiously across its surface. He was meticulously drawing the blueprints for his subsequent fortress construction areas, the strategic gathering points, the very arteries of his burgeoning empire.

New Hanover was a vast, sprawling beast, choked with dense forests, a nightmare for conventional warfare. Building mere isolated bunkers, Dutch knew, was not a long-term solution; it was a fool's errand. Material transportation and personnel replacement would become a logistical nightmare. Therefore, it was absolutely imperative to establish sprawling 'gathering points' and 'work points' strategically placed between his various bunkers. These would serve as bustling hubs, allowing his workers to both toil and live there, while also functioning as central stations for material transportation and the rotation of his loyal gunners, thereby connecting all his fortresses into one impenetrable, sprawling network, with one area radiating outward, dominating the next. To put it simply, it was about building several impenetrable defensive points around a county town, like a spider expertly weaving its deadly web.

Currently, the various areas Dutch had provisionally designated for these grand plans had basically been meticulously marked out on his map. Valentine's 'Hope Ranch' served as the first, foundational settlement, with fortresses bristling around it, radiating absolute control over the entire Valentine area, including the Ranch itself. The second critical settlement was Shady Belle. Subsequently, impregnable bunker clusters would be erected around Rhodes and Shady Belle, designed to completely block all roads, effectively sealing off Saint Denis, transforming the proud city into a trapped, suffocating beast. And the third crucial location was Van Horn Trading Post, with bunkers encircling it, blocking the vital Annesburg transportation route, laying the concrete foundation for future resource acquisition. After all, Annesburg boasted a rich mine, a prize Dutch fully intended to take from the greedy clutches of the great Mr. Cornwall.

Based on these three strategic points, the meticulous bunker gathering point plan would be pushed relentlessly inward, gradually, inexorably occupying the entire New Hanover, and systematically eliminating every single rival gang member within its borders. In this brilliant, ruthless way, the gathering points would ensure the long-term, self-sustaining operation of his fortresses and the seamless movement of supplies.

They would also, quite handily, occupy the surrounding land, preventing the pesky New Hanover Government from ever reclaiming it, forcing them, through sheer, overwhelming force, to reluctantly hand over the precious right to use the land to Dutch. On the map, Dutch's meticulously circled locations for the gathering points and the proposed construction sites for the bunkers were all connected. If one were to draw lines between them, the entire map would resemble a completely covered, utterly impenetrable spiderweb, intricate and deadly. In this era, an age that hadn't even conceived of something as simple as a Tank, such a layout would be absolutely, terrifyingly invincible. Even the nascent, blundering United States Army would be beaten, broken, and sent fleeing in utter panic.

Dutch leaned back in his chair on the second-floor balcony of the Shady Belle villa, a picture of contented triumph. He slowly, almost reverently, put down the intricate map, then reached for the steaming coffee next to him, taking a small, satisfied sip.

At that very moment, the balcony door creaked open, and Arthur, moving with his usual efficient stride, walked over in two steps, a smug look on his face. "Oh, Dutch, you were right!" Arthur announced, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. He gestured expansively with one hand. "There's no movement in Saint Denis at all right now, not a peep! And the police station? Quiet as a tomb!"

Arthur had just returned from a scouting mission in Saint Denis. He had gone there specifically to gauge the city's reaction to the Rhodes incident, to see if the aristocracy had finally been pushed past their breaking point, or rather, to see if those irritating Pinkerton Detectives or the local police were finally gearing up for a confrontation.

"Of course, Arthur, of course!" Dutch purred, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He steepled his fingers, gazing out at his bustling, thriving domain. "We are no longer what we used to be, kid. Both the sheer, undeniable strength we've shown, and the intricate web of connections we've meticulously woven, now make the Saint Denis Government think twice, and then a third time, before even contemplating a move against us." He chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound.

"Did Signor Bronte become the King of Saint Denis by being a philanthropic merchant, distributing free candy to children? No, my boy, he relied on his hundred hardened gunmen, and that is precisely why he could act with such unholy impunity in Saint Denis."

Dutch wasn't surprised in the slightest. Their strength and status were now simply incomparable to what they had once been. But beyond that, the sheer political reality of votes meant that families like the Lemieuxs were practically obligated to protect Dutch.

Even if Mr. Henry was still simmering with impotent rage, even if he, in his heart of hearts, fully understood that Dutch's actions were a deliberate, infuriating show of defiance, they would still have to protect Dutch. Because the Rhodes incident, for all its bloody spectacle, had not, in fact, harmed their interests. On the contrary, if Dutch were to be targeted now, it would directly harm their precious voting interests. It was a very simple, very ruthless, very pragmatic view of pure self-interest.