Undercurrents

Mac, a wide, almost gleeful grin splitting his face, led his detachment of thirty grim-faced gunmen, their horses kicking up dust, as they herded a miserable, tightly bound procession of captured gang members towards the distant, unsuspecting haven of Shady Belle.

His arm, a tireless piston of retribution, continuously swung the heavy horsewhip, lashing it fiercely, methodically, across the backs of the disobedient and the unruly. The air crackled with the sharp, sickening CRACK! of leather on flesh.

A horsewhip, Mac knew, was a truly vicious instrument; a single, well-placed lash would instantly raise a blood-streaked, angry red welt, and the exquisite, searing pain would linger, a tormenting ghost, long after the blow had landed. Otherwise, those previously strong and robust brutes, those defiant outlaws, would never have become so pitifully, utterly obedient.

"Ow! I was wrong! I was wrong, please!"

"Ahhh! Stop hitting me! I'll behave! I swear I'll behave!"

As the horsewhip sang its brutal song, cries of desperate apology, raw and sincere, continuously echoed on the road, their urgency leaving no doubt that the lessons were being absorbed. They had, truly, recognized their mistakes.

Meanwhile, back at the desolate, newly 'pacified' Van Horn Trading Post, Dutch Van der Linde, a picture of strategic calm, led his remaining seventy gunmen with a grand, purposeful stride towards the foreboding territory of The Murfree Brood. As for Van Horn Trading Post itself, it would now serve a crucial, secondary purpose: a tantalizing, almost irresistible bait to attract more desperate laborers, until the next wave of gunmen and dedicated fortress-building laborers arrived to formalize its new status.

Dutch Van der Linde's relentless, calculated series of actions sent a profound ripple of unease throughout the entire New Hanover territory. And far away, in the sophisticated, yet equally volatile, world of Saint Denis, Signor Bronte's own counter-actions were beginning to create a ripple, a subtle tremor in the established order.

While the Van der Linde Gang was besieging Van Horn Trading Post, a sudden, shocking shooting incident also convulsed the usually orderly streets of Saint Denis.

At precisely 9 PM that evening, Mr. Dan Fury, the esteemed police chief of Saint Denis, a man known more for his girth than his bravery, became embroiled in a heated conflict while enjoying his nightly tipple at a local bar. The confrontation ended abruptly, savagely; he was shot dead, right there inside the bustling tavern, his blood staining the polished mahogany floor.

The gunman who committed the audacious act was, conveniently, immediately shot dead by the tavern's ever-vigilant security. And with that, all further leads, all inconvenient questions regarding the chief's untimely demise, vanished into thin air.

Around 10 PM, within the opulent, almost suffocating silence of Bronte Mansion. Even after showering, Signor Bronte had not bothered to change into his comfortable pajamas. Instead, he remained stiffly, primly, in a formal suit, sitting on his plush sofa, quietly savoring the expensive red wine in his hand. Behind the sofa, standing in a posture of rigid respect, was Signor Martelli, his face a mask of practiced deference.

"Very good, Signor Martelli!" Signor Bronte purred, a thin, cruel smile playing on his lips. "Dan Fury dared to betray us, dared to bite the hand that fed him, and this, my friend, is the inevitable consequence of his treachery! A mad dog that couldn't be tamed with two thousand dollars a year… letting him die so easily was far too cheap for that treacherous cur! But this way," he chuckled, a dry, humorless sound, "the means those damned families used to restrain me… they are utterly useless now, aren't they?"

Signor Bronte's posture was a bit stiff, a testament to the restrictive nature of his suit, which was certainly not designed for the casual comfort of pajamas. This choice made him a little uncomfortable, a constant, subtle reminder of his forced civility.

However, after such a prolonged period, he had, begrudgingly, gotten used to this feeling. In fact, he even found a strange, almost masochistic pleasure in this sense of confinement once he fully adapted to it. Signor Bronte set down the wine glass in his hand, feeling greatly pleased with his evening's work. But then, the nagging sense of confinement on his body, a constant, unwelcome companion, reminded him, once again, of the infuriating, unpredictable presence of Dutch Van der Linde. His previously good mood instantly soured, a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Damn it," Signor Bronte muttered, his eyes narrowing slightly, a cold chill running down his spine. "Dutch Van der Linde, what exactly are you doing out there?"

Mr. Dutch Van der Linde's movements during this period had not been small, not subtle. Various rumors, vague but persistent, about Mr. Dutch Van der Linde had been constantly circulating in Saint Denis, infecting the city's gossip mills like a virulent plague. The most prominent, the most talked-about, was the astonishing 'Veteran Club,' and the most conspicuous manifestation of its existence were the continuous batches of stoic, hopeful veterans who arrived to join Mr. Van der Linde at the port every single day.

The number of people each time was not overwhelmingly large, mostly one or two, or three or four. But the frequency was alarming. During this period, according to Signor Bronte's meticulous observations, the cumulative number of retired soldiers who had come to join Dutch had already exceeded three hundred souls. Although he didn't know about the Van der Linde Gang's secret purchase of equipment, nor the full extent of the Van der Linde Gang's true activities, the sheer, undeniable number of personnel alone was enough to allow him, and other astute observers, to make a slightly bold, deeply unsettling guess.

And none of these high-ranking members of Saint Denis society were fools. Signor Bronte, with his network of spies and his keen intellect, saw this astonishing Veteran Club, and naturally, prominent figures from rival families like Mr. Lemieux also saw it, their own brows furrowing with suspicion. Their main energy recently had been focused less on their internal squabbles and more on this so-called Veteran Club, a collective obsession.

As the saying goes, some things don't weigh much until they're put on the scale, but once they are, even a thousand catties can't hold them down. This Veteran Club was precisely such a matter. They were not stupid; they could see the various uses of feminism and employ feminist tactics for their own ends, so naturally, they could also see the profound significance, the immense, terrifying interests, behind this innocuous-seeming Veteran Club. Therefore, this matter, this quiet accumulation of manpower, aroused their deepest vigilance and firmly captured their attention, pushing them to act. This, in turn, fueled Signor Bronte's decision to begin his own calculated retaliatory measures, a chess game of power and influence.