Concern

Dutch's command was not merely an order; it was the sacred, unquestionable directive, the very heartbeat of the Van der Linde Gang! And with a single, resonant word from Mr. Dutch Van der Linde, the entire Van der Linde Gang, like a perfectly synchronized, deadly machine, sprang into furious, coordinated operation.

Charles, ever the stoic enforcer, shadowed Hosea through the murky underbelly of the black market, acquiring Maxim guns and even a few pieces of artillery with the quiet efficiency of ghosts. Meanwhile, Arthur, a grim determination etched onto his face, accompanied Mr. Marko on a whirlwind tour of various factories, securing the raw materials for the monstrous new machine tools destined for weapon manufacturing.

To preserve absolute secrecy, Mr. Marko, a man who trusted his own genius above all else, personally instructed the hand-picked workers at Hope Ranch to assemble the equipment, rather than risking an entire set being manufactured directly at some potentially compromised processing plant.

In addition, a formidable legion of five hundred hardened gunmen was ruthlessly pulled from Vulture Ranch by Dutch's iron will. Armed to the teeth, they immediately began constructing a series of interlocking strongholds along the crucial road between Valentine and Rhodes. The strategic locations of these fortified points encompassed not just railways and dusty roads, but even the deceptively open plains, ensuring that anyone, anyone, passing between Valentine and Rhodes would be immediately spotted, analyzed, and dealt with by the watchful eyes within these bastions. At the same time, this formidable line of strongholds would also form the impregnable security perimeter for the entire New Hanover territory. Based on this very line, the area within its embrace was to be absolutely, utterly safe, a sanctuary. And the area outside? That, my friends, was to be forcibly, ruthlessly secured!

Under Dutch's all-encompassing command, Sunny Quell, the newly minted Sheriff of Rhodes, embarked on an extensive, almost frantic recruitment drive for police officers. Simultaneously, the Shady Belle Factory began its own outward expansion, eagerly hiring the throngs of unemployed residents of Rhodes.

Following the wildly successful model of Hope Ranch, it started encouraging Rhodes residents to open their own shops or stalls around the booming Shady Belle Factory, a deliberate magnet to attract crowds, to breathe new life into the once-dead town. It could be said that every single brilliant idea Dutch could possibly conjure, every ambitious goal he sought to accomplish, was now being developed on multiple, perfectly synchronized fronts, all ensuring that the Van der Linde Gang could enter Guarma, his tropical paradise, as soon as humanly possible.

"West Sea!!!" Milton barked, an almost desperate plea.

However, compared to the thriving, almost ludicrously successful Valentine and the relentlessly expanding Van der Linde Gang, Mr. Milton, that perpetually grim agent of the law, was decidedly not having such an easy time. His brow was permanently furrowed, his jaw clenched so tight it threatened to crack.

"I request a re-evaluation of the threat posed by the Van der Linde Gang!" Milton declared, his voice tight with barely contained fury, his hands slamming down on the counter with a loud thud. He glared at the bored Saint Denis city government receptionist. "Mr. Dutch Van der Linde has now become a prominent, undeniably powerful figure in Valentine! If we don't intervene now, I'm afraid there will be no possibility of intervention later! He has established close, nefarious ties with the local populace and even, somehow, wormed his way into the Sheriff's Department!" His eyes, usually cold, burned with a frustrated, impotent rage.

The receptionist, a plump man with a perpetually bored expression, merely yawned behind a manicured hand. He didn't even bother to look up from polishing his nails. "I'm sorry, Mr. Milton," he drawled, his voice dripping with condescension, "this is simply not your concern. The Anti-Pinkerton Act of 1893 strictly mandates that the Government of the United States and the Government of the District of Columbia shall not employ individuals employed by Pinkerton Detective Agency or similar organizations." He finally looked up, a thin, supercilious smile touching his lips. "So, why not put down your… work… and go home to rest, Detective? The weather is particularly suitable for fishing now, isn't it? Perhaps a nice, relaxing hobby?" He waved a dismissive hand, a gesture that spoke volumes.

The reputation of Pinkerton Detective had already soured like week-old milk. The brutal steel mill strike of 1892 and the recent, scandalous political conspiracy involving the assassination of the Governor of Idaho had utterly transformed Pinkerton Detective's public image from that of valiant private detectives into the universally reviled villains in the employ of the wealthy elite.

Beyond this, Pinkerton Detective was once more akin to a state-recognized private police force, a powerful, almost untouchable entity. But with the slow, grinding improvement of federal judicial institutions, Pinkerton Detective had begun its inevitable, agonizing decline. To this very day, they were more like a sprawling, disorganized group of bounty hunters, clinging desperately to the illusion of authority. The formal denial of their identity had stripped them of any legitimate rights, any true power. So, Mr. Milton might dare to shout at a small-town Sheriff Malloy, but he dared not raise his voice, not even a whisper, at anyone from the Saint Denis City Government. He clenched his jaw, a muscle twitching in his temple.

Listening to the receptionist's utterly dismissive words, Mr. Milton, his face a thundercloud of repressed fury, stalked out of the Saint Denis Government building, Mr. Ross trailing silently behind him.

"Mr. Milton," Ross said, reaching out to hold his horse's reins, his voice calm, pragmatic, in stark contrast to Milton's seething rage. He looked at the silent, fuming Mr. Milton and asked, almost gently, "I think we should start preparing to change our target, shouldn't we? This… this is becoming tiresome."

To be honest, neither of them, in their wildest nightmares, could have imagined that the Van der Linde Gang would achieve its current, ludicrously legitimate state. As a shaky, desperate detective agency on the very verge of being abolished, publicly denied, and collapsing under the weight of city government contempt, Pinkerton Detective was certainly not as grand and upright as Mr. Milton himself believed it to be. In fact, to ensure their continued, albeit tenuous, survival, their current, most popular, and most profitable method was to 'foster bandits' for the sole purpose of self-importance. It was a vicious, cynical cycle.

For instance, if they observed a gang quietly lying low for a while, they would subtly, expertly, prod them, forcing them to make a move, to commit a crime. And then, like white knights galloping in on stolen horses, it would be their turn to step in, to 'save the day,' thereby seeking further profit and power. For example, 'killing' or 'driving away' the Van der Linde Gang, and then conveniently plundering their valuables.

Pinkerton Detective could keep these spoils as personal gain, a lucrative side business. So they would almost never exert their full, annihilating effort to truly crush a gang, only to intimidate and drive them, making them continuously commit crimes, thereby ensuring a steady stream of revenue. They profited from both sides, the criminals and the 'law.' While pursuing the Van der Linde Gang, they were also diligently pursuing and investigating the O'Driscoll Gang, the Howling Wolf Gang, and even those swamp-dwelling Lemoyne Raiders.

However, something had gone terribly, inexplicably wrong recently. The Van der Linde Gang had, with infuriating speed, suddenly transformed into something unrecognizable, something legitimate. And Mr. Colm of the O'Driscoll Gang had, just as abruptly, vanished without a trace, almost as if the earth had swallowed him whole. This double blow had practically cost Pinkerton Detective their two biggest cash cows, leaving them scrambling.

Of course, Mr. Milton, as one of the rare gentlemen among them, didn't much care about the grubby profits. Instead, he was genuinely, fanatically, concerned with utterly eradicating the Van der Linde Gang and the O'Driscoll Gang. But recently, one of these infuriating gangs had abruptly changed professions, and the other had simply disappeared, which made him feel profoundly, terribly uncomfortable. His righteous indignation was thwarted.

"Alas…" Milton sighed, a weary, almost defeated sound, rubbing his temples. "You're right, Ross. The Van der Linde Gang is no longer within our control. No longer a simple problem to be solved with a few bullets. And looking at their latest intelligence reports… Mr. Van der Linde might now command nearly a hundred gunmen. This… this is beyond our ability to manage effectively, beyond our current mandate." He mounted his horse, his face etched with a deep, unsettling worry.

"Then we don't need to bother with him anymore, do we?" Ross shrugged, a pragmatic glint in his eye. "They really do seem to have transformed into… respectable businessmen. We can find other fish to fry." Milton wasn't dead yet, and Ross, for his part, didn't possess that much personal murderous intent towards these people. He was far more interested in making money, in ensuring Pinkerton's survival, than in taking unnecessary risks.

Listening to Ross's pragmatic, almost complacent words, Milton shook his head, his face growing even more grim, a shadow of profound foreboding falling over it. "No, Ross," he said, his voice low, chillingly certain. "Dutch Van der Linde will absolutely, irrevocably, not settle down like this. Or rather, he has merely changed the form of his resistance! He has never been an honest person, never truly played by society's rules, nor can he ever truly settle down.

I guarantee you, Ross, with every fiber of my being, that once he starts acting again, it will likely usher in a storm, a cataclysm unlike anything we've seen before! However," Milton's eyes suddenly gleamed with a desperate, calculating light, "this… this may also be our last, best chance as Pinkerton Detective!" He leaned forward in his saddle, a chilling, almost maniacal gleam in his eye, already envisioning the coming chaos as an opportunity.