Always scheming

The relentless actions of the Van der Linde Gang in New Hanover, though grand in scale and deeply entwined with the lives of the common folk, seemed to ripple across the surface of the state like a stone skipping across water, leaving barely a discernible mark on the serene, indifferent upper echelons of Saint Denis society.

That gilded coterie neither cared nor paid the slightest attention to the tumultuous situation below; nor, crucially, were they the actual government of New Hanover. Indeed, the New Hanover state government itself wasn't even physically located within New Hanover, its officials nestled comfortably in the central-eastern states. This profound disconnect meant they possessed no understanding whatsoever of the seismic changes unfolding in New Hanover during this period, no comprehension of how developed, how frighteningly powerful, the old Dutch had truly become.

Although the construction of Dutch's bunkers was, by necessity, a slow, methodical grind, he possessed an almost inexhaustible supply of money and, crucially, the unwavering will to invest it. Furthermore, he commanded the zealous workers from Hope Ranch and the steadily growing pool of captured laborers as a ready personnel base.

So, in just over half a month, the number of bunkers meticulously built throughout New Hanover had reached a staggering fifty-nine! And they were still rapidly increasing, gobbling up territory at an average rate of three per day. The number of gunfighters assigned to these bunkers, along with the rotating personnel, had already swelled to over four hundred. The entire bunker complex now snaked across the landscape, covering the vital road between Valentine and Rhodes, forming a formidable, impregnable line that effectively divided New Hanover into two distinct halves: the wild, untamed outside, and Dutch's burgeoning, 'civilized' domain.

Bunkers, at this stage, were the cheapest military facilities to maintain; once built, they required virtually no upkeep; their biggest expense was simply the wages of the gunfighters on duty. And the Van der Linde Gang, relying on the burgeoning wealth of their factories and their booming real estate projects in Valentine, could completely, effortlessly withstand their current expenditures. However, with the relentless expansion of their territorial base and the inevitable weakening of the initial clothing business boom, they would, in time, need to start looking for other, more aggressive ways to make money.

Such as: taxes. And: firearms. Specifically, taxes could be cleverly rebranded as: 'insurance.' A brilliant, subtle twist.

Two weeks later, at Van Horn Trading Post. The calm, almost placid sea and the surprisingly suitable environment made the living conditions at Van Horn Trading Post exceptionally comfortable. Compared to the oppressive, humid heat of Saint Denis, Van Horn Trading Post was a much more pleasant, almost refreshing, place to live. Anyway, Dutch had lived there for two weeks now, overseeing his new operations, and he genuinely felt the place was exceptionally comfortable, a true hidden gem. The only reason it hadn't developed into a sprawling city was its fundamental transportation issues. The port there was simply too shallow, which meant that even if a proper, modern port could be built, it would be difficult to accommodate large ships, thus severely limiting sea transport. At the same time, the surrounding area was predominantly mountainous, which also led to excessively high land transportation costs. Simply due to these fundamental transportation factors, Van Horn Trading Post and Saint Denis faced completely different fates, a stark illustration of the profound importance of efficient transportation networks. However, for Dutch's burgeoning empire, this place was completely, perfectly sufficient.

"Arthur, come fishing, son." Dutch stood on the rugged, overlooking Van Horn cliff, holding a small fishing rod, its line dangling lazily towards the calm sea. He called out to Arthur, who was walking by, a familiar, easy camaraderie in his voice. It was nearing evening, and the evenings at Van Horn Trading Post always had a cool, melancholic hue, making one feel a bit lonely, a touch reflective.

"Ah, no, Dutch. Mary just called me." Arthur shook his head, waving a dismissive hand, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He then walked purposefully towards a nearby house, his pace quickening. At this time, the sea, a vast, unbroken expanse, reflected the dimness of the sky. The sunless, overcast sky held only a final, lingering trace of cool, ethereal light. The sky was dimly lit, the sea was dimly lit, lending the entire Van Horn Trading Post a perpetually dim, almost somber feeling. But thankfully, the scattering of passersby, the vigilant gunfighters, and the bright, welcoming lights illuminating the street bravely dispelled the pervasive desolation of the place, casting a lively, almost defiant atmosphere over people's hearts. This intertwined scene of coolness and liveliness was, to Dutch, most enjoyable, a perfect balance.

(Nice excuse Artha' but the walkie talkie surely doesn't have much range)

"Alright, Arthur, alright, I knew you were a spineless wimp," Dutch muttered to himself, watching Arthur's retreating back with a feigned exasperation, then complaining to Hosea, who had silently approached and sat down beside him. "Hosea, look at him now, he revolves around Mary all day long. Damn it, I feel like what we say is less useful than what Mary says now!"

"Hahaha, Dutch," Hosea chuckled, a dry, knowing sound as he cast his own fishing rod into the water with a practiced flick. "You know, this kid is a bit thin-skinned. What you're saying now will definitely make him secretly hate you, I guarantee it."

Arthur, who hadn't walked far, finally stopped, a sigh of resignation escaping him. He lowered his head, turned around helplessly, and then, with a deep, dramatic sigh, said, "Oh… alright, I'll fish with you two for a bit. Just so you won't talk more bad about me later, you old gossips." Arthur walked reluctantly to Dutch and Hosea's side, and Dutch casually, almost conspiratorially, handed him a small, portable chair. These, it turned out, were specially made by him and Hosea during this time, crafted for their convenient, impromptu fishing excursions. Not many were made, only five in total, but today, fortuitously, they happened to meet the demand. Arthur sighed again, a sound of weary resignation, then took the stool and sat down, picking up the fishing rod Dutch handed him.

"Plop!" With the clear, satisfying sound of the seawater, Arthur cast his hook into the sea, the line unfurling gracefully. The scene quieted down slightly, leaving only the faint sounds from the distant street and the muffled murmurs from various rooms. And people passing by on the road, seeing the esteemed Mr. Van der Linde fishing, would unconsciously lighten their footsteps, a silent nod of respect.

Two weeks ago, Dutch had returned to Van Horn Trading Post from his brutal, yet effective, 'pacification' of Butcher Creek Village. And at that very time, Hosea, having been notified by Mac, had also begun to bring a large number of pre-planned migrants – the displaced souls from Butcher Creek – to Van Horn Trading Post. As a future transportation hub, Van Horn Trading Post naturally couldn't remain a useless, lawless backwater. Dutch and Hosea had meticulously designed the development plan for Van Horn Trading Post even before the operation began, their foresight impeccable.

First, a batch of newly recruited worker families would be relocated here, eager for new lives, and a hundred sewing machines would be brought in to serve as their temporary work, converting the town into a makeshift factory. Sea transport was extremely convenient here, and Dutch also established a new, formidable maritime department responsible for transporting their valuable clothing goods and essential firearm raw materials by sea, a silent, unseen artery of commerce.

Hosea, over these two weeks, had relentlessly led his people to construct three formidable bunkers around Van Horn Trading Post, ensuring its absolute security, its impregnable defenses. After two weeks of intense development, Van Horn Trading Post had already begun to take on the undeniable scale of a thriving village or a small town. The total number of workers, transportation department personnel, and gunfighters had collectively reached five hundred, which meant it was starting to hum with genuine vitality. As for the residents of Butcher Creek Village, those unfortunate souls, they had already begun to be rounded up, 'domesticated,' and put to work in the mines.

However, this place was simply too remote, too isolated. Expanding and attracting surrounding residents to settle here would be much more difficult, a far greater challenge, than in Valentine, with its burgeoning fame.

Dutch, Arthur, and Hosea chatted intermittently while fishing, their voices low, comfortable, punctuated by the rhythmic lapping of the waves. The sea surface occasionally rippled, a hopeful sign, indicating good fishing conditions here.

"I heard you have a new plan, Dutch?" Arthur asked, taking out a cigarette, lighting it with a practiced flick, and looking at Dutch expectantly. Dutch was, indeed, Dutch; he always, always, had a series of plans, each one more audacious than the last. Arthur had just returned from the grueling Beaver Hollow encirclement, his body weary but his mind clear, when he heard Hosea casually mention that Dutch had a 'new plan.' And with Dutch, a 'new plan' always meant something momentous was brewing.