Always 2 steps ahead

"No, Arthur, just a simple plan for our future, nothing too dramatic!" Dutch replied with a wide, knowing smile, a master of understatement. He pulled hard on the fishing rod, reeling in the fish that had just greedily bitten the bait, then, without missing a beat, continued,

"Arthur, money, my boy, is merely the skeleton of our development, the bare bones. Resources, however, are the very blood of our development, the lifeblood that truly sustains us. During this time, the diligent mineral prospectors Hosea hired discovered three new mines in New Hanover, which means we no longer need to worry about metal resources, our future arsenals are secure.

But energy resources are a different story, a far more complex challenge. Among other things, if we want to build a truly formidable arms base on Guarma, a self-sustaining industrial powerhouse, we'll need electricity, and electricity currently requires oil to make our internal combustion engines work. From this perspective, oil resources will be the top priority for our future, our very survival. The entire New Hanover currently only has two known places with significant oil resources. The first, and most obvious, is Mr. Cornwall's vast tar field, and the second location… is the Indian reservation. Oh, Arthur," Dutch sighed, a theatrical shake of his head, his two 'Little Mustaches' twitching comically,

"Mr. Cornwall and the United States Government are truly too dark, too ruthless, plundering the Indians' land by sheer, brutal force. This is wrong, child, this is an undeniable act of pure robbery."

(Bro you just eant the oil for yourself )

"But we don't seem to have any way to directly confront Mr. Cornwall and the United States Government right now, do we, Dutch?" Arthur asked, a hint of confusion in his voice. He shifted uncomfortably on his stool, the idea of a direct, head-on confrontation with Cornwall filling him with a familiar dread. After Dutch's incessant, philosophical teachings during this period, Arthur's current guiding principle was to avoid direct contact with these damned upper-class people as much as humanly possible, lest they, in their boundless arrogance, unleash the full, terrifying power of the United States Federal Government to deal with them. Such a direct confrontation, he knew, could easily make their own gang's identity issue a devastating flashpoint.

"No, Arthur, we won't confront them directly, not head-on, at least not yet," Dutch replied, a sly, knowing smile playing on his lips. "So if we want to target Mr. Cornwall, we need to play by their rules, subtly, cleverly, or find a way to restrict their rules. Or, perhaps, use some small, ingenious tricks to significantly increase their transportation costs. Corrupt their employees, steal some oil, a little at a time." Dutch's smile became a subtle, predatory smirk.

"The oil issue is not urgent for now, Arthur," Hosea interjected smoothly from the side, his voice calm and measured as he expertly threw his fishhook into the water. The old man was wearing the latest, most exquisitely tailored men's elegant clothing, newly designed by the Van der Linde clothing factory.

He truly looked like an old, distinguished gentleman, almost ridiculously handsome. Shit! Arthur thought, shaking his head. Hosea is getting more and more flamboyant! It was a pity that old widow from the Braithwaite family had been so conveniently assassinated by them last time; otherwise, the two of them might have truly formed an ill-fated, rather scandalous relationship in their old age.

"This matter requires long-term planning, after all, building a power plant is not as simple as just needing oil. You can rest for a while during this period, Arthur, recuperate. And also, if you have time, go out and subtly inquire about Mr. Cornwall's tar field. It would be even better if you could somehow get to know the people inside, gain their trust."

"Ah, alright, Hosea," Arthur sighed, a familiar, weary sound, and nodded in resignation. He always liked to sigh. In the game, he would sigh and question Dutch's decisions twice before every mission, a habit that might have been the subconscious reason Dutch often felt so uncomfortable around him.

Dutch was, at his core, an egoist, always considering himself the undisputed boss. He didn't like to be questioned, which, in the past, had often intensified the simmering conflict between them. Of course, that was the old Dutch; the current Dutch was completely different, a master of subtle manipulation, of charming his way into people's hearts.

Listening to Arthur's sigh, Dutch looked at him with a hint of theatrical concern. "Arthur, oh, Arthur," he began, a dramatic pause, "I keep hearing you sighing inexplicably lately. Is there some unspeakable difficulty, child? Some secret burden? Oh, Arthur, this is not a small matter, not trivial. Mary finally came to see you… perhaps she has something on her mind too?"

"Shit! Ah-pfft, Dutch!" Arthur's dramatic sigh and helpless expression instantly vanished, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated exasperation. He stared at Dutch, his eyes wide, fearing he would say something else utterly damned, something that would strip him bare.

"Hahaha, Arthur, if you're not sick, then why are you sighing, child? So I think what Dutch said might be right… perhaps there's a reason you're so morose," Hosea laughed heartily from the side, a devilish twinkle in his eye. He liked this relaxed atmosphere of Dutch teasing Arthur, rather than the old, endless questioning and emphasis on gang loyalty. It was refreshing.

"Shit! Hosea, why have you become like this now?!" Arthur looked at Hosea in genuine surprise, his jaw dropping. This damned old man, usually so sly and reserved, was now openly gleeful, almost maliciously so.

"Hahaha, alright, Hosea, you know this child likes to show off and is thin-skinned, don't tease him anymore," Dutch said, a mock-serious tone in his voice, though his eyes sparkled with amusement. "Oh, but do you remember that time we sent Arthur out fishing, and this child, this master fisherman, brought back three delicious bass?" Dutch laughed heartily, a booming, infectious sound, looking at Arthur, who was already starting to get annoyed, a dark cloud gathering on his face.

"Here we go again, Dutch," Arthur groaned, rubbing his temples. "Oh, shit! Can't you say it differently? Can't you tell a new story?" Arthur's sighing, weary look was completely gone now, replaced by an expression of utter mortification. He even felt that he would be laughed to death by the two of them if he stood here any longer.

"No, I don't think I remember," Hosea replied, a mischievous glint in his eye, and steadily reeled in his fishing rod, pretending to be utterly oblivious.

"Hahaha, that day he walked with a proud stride, his chest puffed out like a peacock…" Dutch continued, mimicking Arthur's exaggerated, triumphant appearance that day, clowning around in front of Hosea and Arthur, acting out the role with perfect comedic timing. As he recounted the embellished tale, peals of laughter echoed along the desolate coast.

"Hahahaha!"

The last glimmer of cool light completely disappeared from the sky, and the entire sea began to turn a profound, inky black. The Van Horn Trading Post, however, was now brightly lit, a beacon in the encroaching darkness, and the three men by the sea laughed continuously, their camaraderie a warm glow against the chill. This night, the Van Horn Trading Post continued its orderly, quiet development.

This night, the struggle in Saint Denis became increasingly fierce, a hidden war brewing in the gilded halls. This night, the gangs in New Hanover were still on the run, their frantic flight a testament to Dutch's ruthless efficiency. Some fled desperately towards West Elizabeth, some died brutally under the relentless fire of Dutch's machine guns, and others, less fortunate, were captured and enslaved, forced into a life of hard labor. Under the general trend of civilization, the inexorable march of progress, no individual or region, no matter how wild or resistant, could escape the baptism of Dutch's 'civilization.' And under the general trend of the Van der Linde Gang's overwhelming power, no gang in New Hanover could hope to survive.

And the so-called The Murfree Brood, those degenerate savages, at this very moment, had already met their ultimate, horrifying doom.

At this moment, in Beaver Hollow.

"Oh, shit!!" A ragged, wildman-like figure, his face contorted in a mask of pure, unadulterated rage and grief, screamed frantically at the scene before him in Beaver Hollow. "Who did this?! Damned! I'm going to kill him! I'll tear him limb from limb!" Before him, the entire Beaver Hollow, their secret, gruesome sanctuary, looked as if it had been utterly shelled, severely collapsed, and damaged beyond recognition. Bodies of The Murfree Brood members were scattered everywhere, a horrifying tableau of dismemberment. These bodies were almost all mutilated, with severed limbs and broken arms strewn across the grimy ground, and scarlet blood plasma, still glistening, pooling everywhere. Looking further back, the cave walls were riddled with bullet holes, great, gaping wounds, and large bullet heads were deeply embedded in the rough rock walls of the cave. The sheer, colossal impact force had even created grotesque circles of indentations around the cave entrance, as if some giant, monstrous fist had repeatedly smashed into it. The entire Beaver Hollow was almost completely destroyed. Inside, one could see large crater marks caused by explosions and bomb fragments, which made one's heart pound with a chilling terror.

Seeing this extremely tragic, utterly devastating scene, the sixty-odd remaining members of The Murfree Brood, standing frozen around the shattered ruins of Beaver Hollow, were all utterly terrified, their savage bravado evaporated.

The man who had just wailed, his face still contorted, seized a terrified, trembling man from the huddled crowd, shaking him violently, demanding answers that no one had.