Van Horn

While the furious gears of recruitment ground relentlessly in Valentine, Dutch and his formidable vanguard, a hundred strong, had been pushing themselves day and night, their horses thundering across the plains, until they now stood poised, a silent, menacing shadow, not far from the ramshackle, lawless haven of Van Horn Trading Post.

Deep within the concealing embrace of the woods just outside Van Horn, the hundred gunmen, their forms indistinct in the dappled light, some astride their weary horses, others packed into rattling carriages, presented a truly formidable sight. They had embarked with only fifty men, but another fifty hardened veterans had been deftly pulled from the burgeoning ranks of Shady Belle, bolstering their strength, transforming them into a force to be reckoned with. In addition to these hundred grim-faced gunmen, each armed with the latest, deadly Marko semi-automatic rifle, they possessed the raw, destructive power of three Maxim guns and a single, ominous cannon.

The assembled force stood in disciplined silence, their gazes fixed on Mr. Van der Linde, who conversed in low, urgent tones with several members of his inner circle.

"Arthur, Mac, John," Dutch's voice, a low, gravelly whisper that carried absolute authority, cut through the quiet. "You three will be in charge of operating these Maxim guns. Charles, my boy, you come with me. We still need to have a… civilized conversation with the people inside before the battle begins. If they are sensible, that is for the best. If they are not," his voice hardened, a cold, predatory glint in his eye, "then you can directly act! Mac, John, you two take your men and begin to encircle the main entrances and all other directions of Van Horn Trading Post, ensuring that not a single soul can escape! Alright, gentlemen, it's time for us to go to work!"

Dutch meticulously laid out his brutal, yet effective, battle plan. Damn it, he thought with a wry, internal chuckle, he had no tactical mind at all; his plan was no different from brute force, just… more refined brute force.

"Alright, Dutch. You fifty men, follow us, gentlemen." Arthur nodded curtly, then pointed to fifty seasoned gunmen from Shady Belle. With a decisive tug, he pulled the heavy Maxim gun carriage, urging the horses forward, driving towards the secluded back road of Van Horn Trading Post.

Dutch, meanwhile, swung himself fluidly into his saddle, waved a hand in a gentle, almost imperceptible signal, and led John, Charles, and the remaining forces to encircle the main front road of Van Horn Trading Post.

The geographical layout of Van Horn Trading Post was precisely as it was depicted in the game, a narrow, bottlenecked settlement, the only difference being that in reality, it was several times larger, sprawling just a bit more aimlessly.

There were only two narrow entrances, front and back, barely wide enough for horses and carriages to pass. This meant that as long as these two vital chokepoints were guarded, no one else, no matter how desperate, could possibly escape. A formidable convoy of more than fifty gunmen, a silent, overwhelming force, now completely surrounded Van Horn Trading Post, like a noose slowly tightening.

And at this precise moment, the motley collection of individuals inside Van Horn Trading Post remained utterly, blissfully unaware of the impending apocalypse. The lingering, bloody afterglow of the evening sunset cast a reddish, ominous hue across the ramshackle buildings, and Van Horn Trading Post had already plunged headfirst into its nightly revelry.

Smuggling gang members, their faces grim and wary, or assorted criminals, seeking to hide from the cold winds of justice, were already jostling and carousing, their raucous laughter echoing from the depths of the saloon. Years of uninterrupted impunity, a profound lack of any organized opposition, meant that there were no guards, no watchful eyes, around the two critical entrances of Van Horn Trading Post.

The streets, aside from stumbling, drunken gang members, were filled with a scattering of weary streetwalkers, or grizzled cowboys preparing to engage in another pointless, drunken fisticuff over some imagined slight. No one, not a single soul, paid any attention to the increasingly close, rhythmic sound of hooves, nor to the ghostly figures of the Van der Linde Gang gunmen who had already, silently, completely surrounded the two unsuspecting entrances.

Until…

"Boom!!!"

A deafening, earth-shattering roar ripped through the evening air, echoing from the street just outside Van Horn Trading Post. A cannonball, trailing a thin plume of white smoke, screamed through the air, slamming with brutal force into two separate groups of drunken, pushing gang members. Then, with a blinding flash and a concussive shockwave, it exploded violently. The dozen or so unlucky souls from these two gangs were instantly annihilated, their bodies blown into a horrifying disarray, severed limbs and crimson blood splattering everywhere, painting the dusty street with a grotesque, terrifying masterpiece.

"Ahhhhhh!!!" Piercing, agonizing screams ripped through the sudden, stunned silence, erupting from the street. The streetwalkers, previously lounging with practiced indifference, shrieked in terror at this sudden, brutal spectacle, their eyes wide with disbelief. The remaining gang members and various outlaws, their faces paling, hastily spun around, their hands instinctively reaching for the revolvers tucked into their holsters, the knives hidden in their vests.

However, in the very next moment, their movements all ceased, their hands freezing mid-reach. Because dozens of cold, unforgiving muzzles were already pointed directly at each of them. No, not just dozens. Because dozens more gunmen had already materialized from the shadows behind, their forms like dark angels, standing at every doorway, their rifles aimed inside, perfectly ready, just waiting for a single, deadly command to storm in.

"Oh, shit! What in the blazes is going on out there?!" Mr. Charlie Bahn, the self-proclaimed king of Van Horn, roared from the depths of the saloon, his face contorted with displeasure, his booming voice cutting through the sudden, terrified silence outside. He glared at his cowering subordinate. "Damn it, didn't I say that no guns are allowed inside Van Horn Trading Post, not a single one?! Damn it, Jason! Go open that door and see what's happening! Find that damned animal who threw the bomb and skin him alive! I'll enjoy watching it!"

"Yes! Mr. Bann!" Jason stammered, his face a mask of angry confusion, quickly grabbing his own pistol. He rushed to the saloon door, flung it open with a frustrated shove, and stumbled into the chaos.

The next moment, the cold, steel barrel of a Maxim gun was pressed against his forehead, forcefully, brutally, pushing him back, sending him staggering into the saloon. And simultaneously, the large glass window, previously obscured by dingy curtains, shattered with a sickening crash. Then, with a grinding, ominous sound, the thick, black barrel of a cannon was deliberately pushed through the splintered glass and shredded curtains, its gaping maw pointing directly, undeniably, at Mr. Charlie Bahn, who sat frozen in his chair, a half-empty glass of whiskey clutched in his trembling hand.