Relocation

The old village chief sighed, a sound heavy with despair, and then, with a pathetic, shuffling gait, trotted towards the horses of Dutch and the others. He didn't even dare to grasp a horse's rein, lest the formidable 'Governor' be displeased by his physical condition, his diseased, repulsive skin.

It wasn't just him; every single villager in Butcher Creek Village, their faces etched with fear, became utterly, profoundly obedient. The Governor's imposing identity, coupled with his terrifyingly grand display of armed force, had truly, utterly scared them into submission.

Of course, there were definitely some who harbored doubts, their cynicism a stubborn ember. "Shit!" a man, dressed like a self-proclaimed high priest, shrieked, sprinting out of the village, his eyes wide with a manic defiance. "He's not the Governor at all! Governor never lives in New Hanover, and the state government is even in the central-eastern states! He's not the Governor at all! It's a trick!" His panicked shouts, sharp and accusatory, caused the Butcher Creek Village villagers, who had just begun to settle down, to become suspicious once more. They cautiously, nervously, touched their crude firearms, and the old village chief, his spine stiffening, his eyes filled with renewed vigilance, looked at Dutch and his silent, menacing group.

However, in the very next moment…

"Grumble grumble…"

Along with the ominous sound of heavy carriages moving, the hulking forms of three Maxim guns slowly rumbled out from both sides of the village roads, their black muzzles swiveling to cover the trembling villagers.

Then, from the surrounding hilltops, and even from within their own ramshackle village, figures of grim-faced gunmen, clad in their stark black and white uniforms, appeared one after another, as if conjured from the very earth itself. More than seventy rifles, their barrels glinting, were densely, chillingly aimed at the head of every single person in Butcher Creek Village. And the three Maxim guns, like the scythes of death itself, brought an undeniable, soul-crushing despair.

The Butcher Creek villagers, whose doubts about Dutch's identity had just begun to resurface, immediately, frantically, put down their firearms again, their hands raised in panicked surrender. Damn it, they thought, their minds reeling, with such a grand, terrifying display, if he's not the Governor, then who in the blazes is he?! The Devil himself?!

"Governor, we were wrong again! Please forgive our ignorance! We are a land cursed by demons, we truly didn't know your identity!" the old village chief whimpered, wiping the sweat from his forehead repeatedly, his eyes wide with terror as he looked at the dark muzzles of the rifles all around him, his heart trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.

Dutch, his patience worn thin by their superstitious nonsense, was visibly furious. He cracked his whip hard, the sharp CRACK! slicing through the humid air, and cursed:

"Damn it! Civilization has arrived! In this West, ignorance and feudalism have been defined as backward ideologies! They are the shackles of progress! The demons and curses you speak of are the most typical feudal theology, the very chains that bind you, and that's illegal! Damn it, all of you have violated the United States Federal Government's new era laws! Who among you is spreading this damned doctrine?!"

As soon as the word 'illegal' was uttered, the people of Butcher Creek Village panicked. What the hell are demons, what the hell are curses? Under this oppressive array of gun muzzles, under the cold, unblinking gaze of three Maxim guns, even real demons would have to kneel, whimpering! The old village chief explained in a frantic, desperate rush,

"No, no, no, I didn't spread it, not me! It was this wizard who said it, the wizard said it!" He pointed a trembling, accusatory finger at the man dressed like a high priest.

"Bang!"

A deafening gunshot echoed through Butcher Creek Village, sharp and final, scaring the villagers into screaming and panicking, throwing their hands over their heads, held high in futile protection. And the man who had been dressed as a wizard, his face a mask of shocked disbelief, was now lying on the ground, his head horrifically blown open.

His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the sky, and his entire skull had a large, gaping hole ripped open by the bullet, leaving no possibility of survival. The old village chief trembled with fear, his face pale as he looked at Arthur, who was on horseback, calmly putting his pistol away.

"Alright, gentlemen," Dutch chuckled, a grim amusement in his voice, looking at Butcher Creek Village ahead, now bathed in the eerie silence of death. "There's no wizard now. I think you should be able to relocate this time, right? No more silly curses?"

The wizard was dead, Dutch's authority was established, and the 'Governor' had given his definitive order. So naturally, there was nothing left for them to hesitate about. These commoners, despite appearing very xenophobic and somewhat dim-witted, were exceptionally, pathologically afraid of the army, the crushing might of the United States Government, and any high-ranking official who dared to show his face.

A mere mining company, with its paltry demands, had made them incredibly obedient; now that the 'Governor' himself had arrived, backed by such overwhelming force, they would naturally only obey, without question. A group of Butcher Creek Village villagers, their heads bowed, slowly walked towards their homes, gathering their meager belongings. The elderly sighed, their faces etched with resignation, while the younger ones, those who still had a flicker of life in their eyes, showed a hint of terrified anticipation. But there were conspicuously no very young children among them.

Perhaps, Dutch mused grimly, it was because the young children couldn't survive long-term drinking such mineral-rich, poisoned water.

"Alright, Arthur, John," Dutch said, on horseback, his voice crisp and commanding, instructing Arthur and John beside him. "You two take your men to encircle and annihilate The Murfree Brood members. As for me, I should go back and oversee the progress of the overall takeover of Van Horn." He paused, his eyes hardening. "Remember, The Murfree Brood members deserve to die. Do not, under any circumstances, give them any quarter, any chance; just use artillery and Maxim guns to shoot them down forcefully, relentlessly. I don't want any of our gunmen to be harmed. Not one."

"Alright, Dutch." Arthur nodded grimly, then looked at the disciplined group of gunmen behind him, feeling a slight sense of profound emotion, a strange surge of power. "Shit, I've never personally commanded so many men before. Alright, gentlemen, John, let's go!" At Arthur's command, the gunmen boarded the carriages one by one, their movements swift and practiced, then headed majestically, a rumbling wave of death, towards Beaver Hollow, the heart of The Murfree Brood's territory.

Dutch, alone, a solitary figure of ruthless efficiency, rode his horse towards Van Horn Trading Post, his mind already calculating the next moves. And at this very moment, not only were Arthur and his formidable group besieging The Murfree Brood in Beaver Hollow, but other gunman teams were also rampaging, systematically, terrifyingly, throughout New Hanover.

"Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat…"

The piercing, continuous gunshots echoed ceaselessly across the vast, rolling plains, a brutal symphony of eradication. A Maxim gun, pulled by a carriage that bounced wildly over the uneven terrain, constantly spewed deadly flames, a relentless torrent of bullets sweeping away the figures frantically fleeing ahead.

"Ahhhhhh!!!" Screams of agony ripped through the air from the twenty-odd fleeing figures, but the very next moment, the screaming members were horrifically cut in half, their bodies shredded by the Maxim gun's relentless bullets.

The ground on the prairie was ripped up in pieces, great chunks of earth torn by the Maxim bullets, and even as the Maxim roared, the surrounding rifles continuously rang out, a sharp, deadly counterpoint. One living life after another had no resistance, no possibility of survival, under this hail of bullets, almost vanishing the very moment they were touched.

"Stop, stop, we surrender!!! We were wrong…" Those desperadoes and gang members who used to kill without batting an eye, whose faces were always masks of cold indifference, finally showed genuine human emotion under the overwhelming, brutal firepower of the machine gun. Some even cried hysterically, their bodies shaking, begging for mercy, their voices pathetic whimpers. However, surprisingly, their pleas for mercy actually worked. Both the burst-firing Maxim gun and the continuously firing rifles of the surrounding gunmen all bypassed their figures, their deadly focus shifting to the rest of the fleeing crowd. And those who knelt and begged for mercy would be forcibly bound by the subsequently arriving gunmen and then unceremoniously stuffed into carriages with cages.

These grim, caged carriages were already filled with bound gunmen, their fates sealed. Their destiny was slightly better than that of their comrades; they wouldn't die, but would be captured to serve as miners, just like the unfortunate gang members captured in Van Horn Trading Post.

"Tat-tat-tat…" Dense, continuous gunshots rang out, systematically harvesting the lives of one gunman after another, while at the same time, with a grim efficiency, humanely trying to preserve their horses, valuable assets. More than twenty individuals, facing the relentless, overwhelming force of the Maxim gun and the terrifying, cross-era semi-automatic rifles, had no power to fight back, no possibility of escape. In less than a minute, the desperadoes who hadn't surrendered, who only thought of desperate escape, were riddled with bullet holes, their bodies twitching, just like John in a game, dying miserably, painfully. Just as Dutch had said: they lived by barbaric means, and they would ultimately die by barbaric means.

And this chilling, efficient scene was continuously unfolding throughout New Hanover during this week. Dutch's promise to clear out all of New Hanover wasn't just idle talk; it was a ruthless, unfolding reality. All of a sudden, the widespread deaths of various gang members caused a wave of profound panic among these smaller, lesser gangs.

The cunning ones either immediately went into deep hiding, trying to avoid committing any crimes and hoping to weather the storm in silent obscurity, or directly abandoned New Hanover altogether, fleeing further west, towards West Elizabeth. As for the once-large gangs, they now ceased to exist. The O'Driscoll Gang, for some time now, whether they had transformed, hidden, or simply fled, hadn't been seen in large numbers for a very long time. The remaining two or three pathetic small groups were also frantically fleeing towards Elizabeth under the relentless hail of gunfire. And the only remaining major threat, The Murfree Brood, whose territory was now being systematically cleansed, was not far from utter extinction.