Murica

While Dutch and Charles rattled along on the train, speeding towards their new, potentially very complex, welcome committee, an entirely different scene unfolded at the entrance of Hope Ranch. A knot of humanity, starkly out of place against the neat, if still rustic, American backdrop, stood hesitant and vulnerable.

These were the Indians, their faces etched with the dust of a long journey and the deeper lines of centuries of struggle.

This was America, an era where 'American supremacy' wasn't just a saying, it was a brutal, undeniable fact carved into the very landscape. Even with the grand, bloody spectacle of the Civil War supposedly abolishing slavery, such a profound, systemic shift couldn't instantly eradicate ideologies so deeply rooted they were practically part of the soil.

In this 'land of the free,' Black people and East Asians were shoved into the lowest rungs of society, relegated to jobs even a dog would turn its nose up at. It was precisely why the ranks of various gangs and outlaws swelled with a disproportionate number of Black and Indian faces. There was, in those self-righteous circles, a popular, sneering saying: "The proportion of Black people who are criminals is exceptionally high." And why wouldn't it be? When you cannot secure honest work, when every door is slammed in your face, when you are denied recognition, spat upon, and discriminated against from the moment you draw your first breath—which soul, growing up in such a suffocating, prejudiced environment, wouldn't become a criminal?

They procreated on stolen land, these self-appointed 'Americans,' denying every other race a decent way to live, yet they had the sheer audacity to perch themselves on a moral high ground, pointing accusing fingers, proclaiming other races 'inferior,' incapable of earning their keep, always robbing and stealing. This, truly, was America's biggest, most tragic joke.

If this very group of Indians had appeared, say, in the gleaming, supposedly civilized streets of Saint Denis, it wouldn't have taken five minutes before a contingent of self-important police officers arrived, huffing and puffing, to expel them with a few well-placed kicks, or perhaps even arrest them, throwing them into a rat-infested prison cell. In more severe, yet depressingly common cases, they might even have been shot dead, right there on the street, and afterwards?

Not a whisper of punishment. Instead, the local sheriff would likely have pinned a medal on the shooter, praising their 'bravery.'

Fortunately, however, by some twisted twist of fate, they had appeared at Hope Ranch.

Everyone at Hope Ranch had their own stories of grinding poverty. These were people who had been dirt poor for half their lives, people who had tasted the bitter dust of starvation. They harbored no romantic 'gratitude' for the notion of America, no ingrained sense of belonging to its cruel, indifferent laws.

Before, they simply yearned to survive; now, they simply yearned to follow in the miraculous footsteps of Dutch Van der Linde. Discrimination? The very thought was alien to them. Most importantly, their savior, their life mentor, Dutch Van der Linde himself, included Black people and Indians within the cherished ranks of his own gang. In Dutch's world, discrimination was not only impermissible; it was simply not done.

Over four hundred Indians, their faces a tableau of caution and raw nerves, stood huddled together at the entrance of Hope Ranch, their eyes filled with a helpless sorrow that felt ancient. A large contingent of the tribe, mostly women and children, stood neatly in a corner, so careful not to offend that they didn't even dare to block the ranch's main entrance.

Standing guard, their hands resting on their holstered weapons, were thirty of Hope Ranch's own gunfighters. Their presence, though passive, only served to heighten the terror in the eyes of the Indian women and children.

The migration of over four hundred souls was no small feat, especially from the distant, confining reservation to this far-off ranch. It had taken them a full seven agonizing days of relentless travel. Along the way, their meager food supplies had long since vanished, their physical energy utterly, painfully exhausted. But even these grueling hardships paled in comparison to the soul-crushing helplessness and gnawing fear that gripped their hearts in this precise moment.

At the very edge of the Hope Ranch fence, the group of Indians huddled even closer. The women of the tribe, with trembling hands, pulled out the last pitiful scraps of food, pressing them into the eager hands of their children, hoping to stave off hunger and calm their little ones' rising anxiety, if only for a few bites. The men, meanwhile, formed a vigilant circle around them, their eyes, sharp and watchful, fixed on the thirty gunmen surrounding them.

But no one, not a single warrior, reached for a weapon. This was Rain Falls's strict command; they had come to surrender, to seek refuge, and naturally, they could not afford the slightest conflict with Van der Linde's subordinates.

In reality, this desperate gamble had utterly drained Rain Falls of his last vestiges of resolve. Van der Linde, after all, shared no blood, no history, no kinship with them.

If he chose not to accept them, they would have no way back, nowhere to go. When they had left their reservation, they had already been subjected to the probing, suspicious questions of the American soldiers stationed around the settlement.

As Rain Falls had expected, the American officer, upon hearing their desperate plea that they were heading to Valentine to seek refuge with a factory owner, had immediately, almost surprisingly, let them pass without a word.

But, as they marched away, American soldiers had simultaneously, with a chilling efficiency, entered their now-empty settlement. If Dutch didn't take them in this time, they would truly be homeless.

However, their encounter with the American soldiers during their departure had been… unexpected. In every previous encounter, those American soldiers had treated them like animals, each one dripping with condescension, their faces a mask of sneering superiority. Even the lowliest private would curse at them, spit discrimination at their feet, and openly, graphically, fantasize about humiliating their women. But this time? This time, when they announced they were going to Hope Ranch to seek refuge with Dutch Van der Linde, the soldiers' attitudes had shifted, snapped, 180 degrees.

Not only did they cease their cursing, their expulsions, their vile threats against the women, but they actually helped them pack their meager belongings, even providing two rickety wagons so they could travel slightly more comfortably.

This kind of treatment, this baffling display of humanity, was simply unimaginable to Rain Falls and his weary people. It only served to deepen their impression of Van der Linde's immense, unseen power.

Of course, the true reason was simpler: Dutch's 'Veteran Club' had spread its roots deep into the army. All soldiers now, subconsciously, stood with Dutch Van der Linde, because they would eventually retire, and eventually, they too would receive Van der Linde's mysterious, yet lucrative, 'help.'

Therefore, upon learning that these Indians were seeking refuge with Van der Linde, their attitudes had indeed performed a bewildering, one eighty.

Rain Falls, Flying Eagle, and Bear stood quietly at the entrance of Hope Ranch, their eyes fixed on the distant figures of the gunmen, waiting for some announcement. Bear and the others, the fiery radicals, had ultimately been persuaded to return. As the fighting backbone of the tribe, the entire community still needed their escort, their strength, for this treacherous journey, which was why they had grudgingly come back.

At this moment, Rain Falls, Flying Eagle,Bear and Elephant all stood in silent contemplation, observing the bustling, vibrant scene within Hope Ranch. It was noon, the sun high in the sky, and time for lunch at Hope Ranch. Nearly a thousand male and female workers were queuing in orderly lines for their midday meal. Their clothes, new and well-fitting, lent them an almost dignified charm. They laughed and chatted with each other, every face lit with genuine smiles, as if sorrow and trouble were distant, forgotten specters in their lives. Compared to the gaunt, sallow laborers they had witnessed in the miserable streets of Saint Denis, these people were rosy-faced, well-built, and radiated an inexhaustible strength.

Flying Eagle, Elephant, and Bear felt a powerful current of longing and envy ripple through them, their expressions momentarily softening. Rain Falls, observing them, felt an even deeper sense of anticipation and an almost overwhelming peace settle in his heart.

This was the first time he had ever witnessed such a factory, such a communal dwelling, and the physical vitality of these workers was a rare sight in the entire West.

(Probably due to Dutch's 8 hour workday and 21th century worker benefits)

Workers in other places were either sickly and emaciated or had faces as blank and dead as the plains. But here, there was laughter, there was joy, there was a palpable sense of well-being that clearly spoke of a good, prosperous life.

And a boss who treated his workers this way was, without a shadow of a doubt, a good man. Therefore, Dutch Van der Linde was, beyond question, a truly benevolent, almost miraculous, human being.

After a short, anxious wait, a subtle commotion stirred within Hope Ranch. Rain Falls, Flying Eagle, and the others, still standing rigidly at the entrance, watched as a stylishly dressed, profoundly dignified middle-aged man walked out, a warm smile gracing his features. Beside him were a youthful Black man and a red-haired youth, both looking equally well-cared for.

"Mr. Rain Falls, hello," the dignified man began, his voice smooth as aged whiskey, exuding an almost paternal warmth. He extended his hand, a welcoming gesture. "I am from the Van der Linde Gang. My name is Hosea Matthews! It's a genuine pleasure to make your acquaintance." Hosea's clothes, impeccably tailored and exceptionally fashionable, formed a stark, almost humorous contrast with the simple, worn buckskins of Rain Falls, Flying Eagle, and the others. Civilization, with all its unspoken hierarchies, was suddenly highlighted in this moment, its backwardness and advancement starkly evident in the very fabric and style of their clothing.

"Dutch has already told me all about you, gentlemen," Hosea continued, his smile widening. He gestured expansively towards the waiting Indians. "Hurry, hurry! Don't just stand there, please let everyone in! You haven't eaten yet, have you? My goodness, these children must be absolutely starving!"

He turned to Lenny, the young Black man beside him. "Lenny, go tell the ladies in the kitchen to make more food, immediately! A lot more!" With that, he extended his hand to shake Rain Falls's hand, his demeanor unhurried, his words flowing like a comforting balm.

With just that one sentence, that simple, human gesture, the gnawing anxiety, the bone-deep unease in the hearts of Rain Falls, Flying Eagle, and the others almost completely vanished, dissolving into the warm afternoon air.

Even Bear, the fierce, defiant combatant, standing rigidly on the side, suddenly felt an almost overwhelming desire to submit, to simply obey, because of that one sentence. Damn it, who could truly comprehend the destructive power of such a simple, kind sentence in such a desperate, vulnerable situation!

They had migrated over a thousand miles, crossing hostile landscapes. They had camped out for a week, displaced, helpless, bewildered, utterly adrift in a world that wanted them gone. All that pain, all that helplessness, all that crushing exhaustion… it vanished into thin air with just that one, profound sentence. That simple, warm invitation was already completely, unequivocally worth the long, agonizing journey they had made.

Rain Falls's eyes, dry for so long, were now moist with unshed tears. He looked deeply, gratefully, at Mr. Horshee Matthews, who was walking towards him with such genuine warmth. With profound reverence, he extended both his hands, clasping Hosea's in a tight, desperate grip, a silent testament to the overwhelming relief washing over him.