Rest

The sky above Hope Ranch brooded like a bruised thundercloud, dense and heavy, pressing down on the distant mountain peaks. Gusting winds, laced with the icy bite of torrential rain, howled past the newly constructed sheds, ripping through the perpetual humidity.

The rainwater itself didn't just fall; it poured, a deafening, rushing deluge that turned the ground into a muddy swamp. Even before dusk, the sky had swallowed the last vestiges of light, plunging the ranch into a premature, inky darkness, and the temperature, remarkably, had dropped a full two degrees lower than usual, chilling everyone to the bone.

"Cough, cough, cough! Humph! Spit!" Uncle grumbled, pulling his threadbare trench coat tighter around his scrawny frame. He punctuated his complaint with a robust, wet cough that seemed to come from the very depths of his lungs, followed by a casual, yet profoundly disgusting, gob of spit onto the sodden ground beside him. Then, with a practiced ease, he picked up his ever-present wine bottle and tilted it back, allowing a generous stream of dubious liquid to gurgle down his throat.

"In the town once came a stranger, with a big iron on his hip…"

A raucous chorus of off-key singing rose from the heart of the newly built wooden shed, where a colossal bonfire blazed, its cheerful light valiantly battling back the encroaching darkness. While electricity had, indeed, been painstakingly wired into the factory buildings, the Van der Linde Gang, a collection of vagabonds who had spent half their lives under the vast, indifferent sky, still overwhelmingly preferred the primal warmth and camaraderie of a roaring bonfire.

Sean, his face flushed with wine and merriment, Lenny, Mac, Marko, and Randy were all sprawled around the crackling flames, gleefully bellowing lewd songs, their voices devoid of any semblance of musicality. Javier, the gang's resident musical genius, was currently off in Ohio with Davey and the others, so the usual accompaniment was conspicuously absent. But truth be told, the lack of instruments didn't affect anyone's spirits one whit.

"Oh, Arthur!" Karen shrieked, pointing a dramatic, accusing finger at him as he passed. Her eyes, usually sharp, were now shining with a playful, wine-fueled mischief. She swayed slightly, a mischievous grin stretching across her face. "You've really changed, you old dog! You used to sneak glances at my chest like a hungry wolf, and now you don't even bother to say hello! Oh, you've truly broken my poor little heart! Boohoohoo… Hahahaha!" She dissolved into peals of laughter, clutching Mary-Beth, who, along with Jenny and Tilly, were dancing with abandon by the bonfire, their forms silhouetted against the flames.

"Shit! Karen!" Arthur growled, his face flushing a mortified crimson. He walked past them with a visibly guilty conscience, glaring fiercely at Karen over his shoulder. However, this perfectly predictable reaction, far from dampening the girls' spirits, only made their laughter erupt even louder, more infectious, as they delighted in his discomfiture.

Miss O'Shea, Abigail, and Mary, however, sat together on a nearby bench, a picture of quiet, dignified camaraderie. They smiled and chatted softly, their voices a gentle counterpoint to the raucous revelry. They lacked the untamed, youthful vibrancy of Jenny and the others, having matured into women possessed of a deeper charm, a quiet dignity, and a profound composure. This maturity meant they merely sat here, whispering secrets and observations, rather than joining the wild dance. However, the behavior of these three ladies today was, to an astute observer, somewhat peculiar.

"Abigail," Miss O'Shea murmured, resting her right hand gracefully on her cheek, a pose she maintained even while laughing. The conspicuous diamond ring on her right ring finger occasionally caught the bonfire's light, reflecting a subtle, knowing glimmer. "Do you think having a child is… a wonderful thing?"

"Hahaha, Molly!" Abigail chuckled, her eyes sparkling. She glanced at little Jack, who was currently playing happily in a patch of mud nearby, his small face smeared with dirt. A wave of profound motherly satisfaction and happiness washed over her. She raised her right hand, casually covering her mouth as she teased.

The diamond on her finger, too, sparkled, catching the flickering light. "If you want to know, just have one yourself! Anyway, I think Jack is the absolute love of my life!"

"I think I should have a child with Arthur," Mary said softly, raising both her hands to her chest, her gaze distant, contemplative. On each hand, a diamond ring glittered: one, their delicate engagement ring from their passionate youth, and the other, their grander, more formal, current engagement ring. "I know he's always had some… reservations, some doubts, but that's also why I want to have a child for him, to show him."

Miss O'Shea and Abigail turned their heads simultaneously, their expressions a mix of surprise and knowing amusement.

At that very moment, little Jack, having thoroughly enjoyed his mud-pie endeavor, toddled over to Pearson, Strauss, Kieran, and Susan, who were clustered around another makeshift table, drinking and chatting, a much more subdued corner of the party.

"Aunt Susan!" Little Jack chirped, holding a large, suspiciously dark lump of mud high in his small hands, his eyes wide with innocent expectation. "Can you help me mold a little person?"

"Oh, of course, little darling!" Susan cooed, smiling broadly as she leaned down and scooped him into a warm hug. She then, somewhat less enthusiastically, took the lump of mud from his outstretched hand. "Oh, shit! What exactly are you holding, sweetheart?" Her eyes widened, her nose wrinkled.

"Mud!" Jack replied proudly, tilting his head.

"No, you little terror!" Susan shrieked, dropping the lump with a disgusted yelp, her face paling. She glared at him. "This is horse shit! Damn it, Jack, where in the blazes did you get that from?!"

The wine table erupted into utter chaos, a chorus of disgusted groans and choked laughter, while at another bonfire not far away, a relatively quiet, contemplative atmosphere prevailed.

Dutch sat on a wooden box, puffing contentedly on a cigar, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames before him, a silent, knowing smile playing on his lips. Hosea was quietly, meticulously, tasting a new concoction he had mixed, his brow furrowed in concentration. Beside him sat the stoic chief of the Indian tribe, Chieftain Rain Falls, his face a canvas of quiet observation.

Across from them, Flying Eagle and a perpetually bemused John sat properly, almost formally. John smoked, occasionally using a wooden stick to poke at the glowing charcoal in the bonfire, his movements deliberate. And beside him, Arthur, a fresh cigarette already between his fingers, walked over, settled down, and lit the tip from the bonfire's embers, the cherry glowing bright red.

"So, Dutch," Arthur finally said, looking up, his eyes meeting Dutch's, a silent question passing between them. He took a long, deep drag from his cigarette, fully igniting the tip, savoring the familiar burn. This kind of gang atmosphere, this warm, chaotic camaraderie, had not been experienced for a very long time. To preserve this precious memory, Dutch had specifically commissioned the construction of this large wooden shed, destined to serve as a permanent gang gathering point.

For this, he had even spent an extra one hundred dollars to buy the finest timber. And yet, this atmosphere truly, utterly, felt like the old days, when the gang was simply wandering, a makeshift family against the world.

"Yes, Arthur, we are going to start, my boy," Dutch replied, his voice low, filled with a resonant conviction. He clipped the cigar in his hand, a precise, almost ritualistic movement, then placed the remaining half carefully on the wooden box beside him.

"Whether it's the arms factory, or all the other… enterprises… we are preparing, resources are an extremely important condition, an absolute necessity. Otherwise, Mr. Cornwall would not be so… famous."

Mr. Cornwall, the very name a sneer on Dutch's lips, was, in his mind, the very embodiment of the resource industry. Sugar merchant, oil tycoon—these two identities granted him infinite, suffocating power. Compared to the fleeting, intangible world of financial investment, the influence of true industrialist merchants far, far exceeded that of mere speculators and gamblers. In Dutch's grand scheme, no one on Wall Street, no matter how brilliantly they played with numbers, held more real, tangible influence than a man like Mr. Cornwall. Because Cornwall genuinely concerned himself with the livelihood of a massive group of people, and the undeniable guarantee of national and local resources. It was still the same saying, the core tenet of Dutch's burgeoning philosophy: too much money, hoarded and unspent, was utterly useless, mere waste paper. But resources exchanged for that money—that was the most useful, the most powerful thing of all. So Dutch wanted resources, needed resources, and by God, he must get resources. Only then could there be sustainable development, and only then would he not be choked, not be beholden to anyone.

"We need resources, so we must begin this next step of action," Dutch declared, his words sharp, decisive, cutting through the festive air. His gaze, usually so affable, hardened, becoming exceptionally sharp, his eyes glinting with a cold, almost murderous intent. Then he looked at Hosea beside him, a silent, powerful command passing between them. "Hosea, tomorrow you can start recruiting more female workers. Continue to recruit relentlessly in Valentine and Rhodes, and the newly recruited female workers will be settled in the places we previously designated. Also," he tapped his cigar on the wooden box, "the construction workers I asked you to find… they need to constantly monitor our progress, to quickly, relentlessly, start building settlements at our planned locations, to form proper towns. And don't you dare forget to build those bunkers, Hosea!"

"Alright, Dutch," Hosea nodded, a faint, weary smile touching his lips. He had been immensely busy during this time, running himself ragged. Dutch's 'fortress-infantry coordination' combat plan was a beast, requiring not only overwhelming military force but also that the personnel behind them could keep pace with the relentless progress of the men on the front lines. They had to ensure that after Dutch and his team cleared an area, a functional settlement could be quickly established in that area, legally occupying the right to use the land, thereby preventing the New Hanover state government from ever reclaiming it. Land in the West during this era was not considered valuable; for a mere dollar of registration, you could claim a piece of land to build a ranch. So this was their best, most audacious opportunity to legally occupy vast tracts of land. (In reality, the ranch John bought and the ranch Dutch and his team 'bought' were just the dilapidated houses; as for how much land you actually used, it completely depended on how much you fenced off, and generally, no one cared a whit.) These settlements, once established, would be meticulously connected, forming a continuous, sprawling area, thereby rapidly expanding and encroaching on land, a silent, unstoppable tide.