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"This place has changed a lot," Charles's deep voice resonated in front of John and Arthur, drawing their gaze from the newly bustling buildings of Rhodes. At this moment, Charles and Flying Eagle stood patiently at the grand entrance of the saloon, waiting for Arthur and John to join them.

"Arthur, John." Flying Eagle nodded, his face solemn yet respectful, as the two men approached. The Indians now utterly trusted Dutch. Not merely because of Dutch's grand plans for development, nor his eloquent speeches, but because of Dutch's recent, undeniably effective clear-out operations.

This brutal, efficient cleansing had allowed them to witness firsthand what Dutch had so confidently spoken of: an alternative form of resistance, a path to true safety. With clear-out teams often numbering in the hundreds, and all gunmen along with their meticulous logistical personnel totaling well over a thousand souls, the sheer, overwhelming scale of such numbers profoundly shocked them.

Because they had personally seen the Van der Linde Gang emerge from the snowy, desolate mountains just four short months prior. At that time, their group was still so pitiably small, numbering less than thirty people in total, and their combat personnel were pitifully few, a mere handful of hardened men.

Yet, in just four short months, they had achieved their current, formidable scale, which made these Indians believe, truly believe, that what Dutch said wasn't mere deception, wasn't empty promises; perhaps he truly thought that way, and he genuinely had a comprehensive, viable plan! Therefore, these Indians, whether for the profound purpose of learning or for the simple, desperate need for survival, now completely, implicitly trusted Dutch.

"Charles, Flying Eagle. Where's Dutch?" Arthur raised his hand to greet the two, his brow furrowed with a question. John, too, nodded to them, his expression one of stoic recognition. Arthur's gaze swept over the opulent saloon behind Charles, then he asked, his voice low, "Is he inside?"

The most luxurious saloon in the game.

Arthur knew, was undoubtedly the Braithwaite family's grand establishment, now defunct. Even though Valentine's saloon also boasted a two-story structure, neither its grand scale nor its sheer, opulent luxury could compare to the magnificent Rhodes saloon. And after the Braithwaite family's ignominious demise, the second floor of the Rhodes saloon was meticulously renovated and transformed, by Dutch's decree, into the second branch of his Veteran Club. Arthur, however, still didn't quite understand Dutch's peculiar decision.

"Oh, I really don't understand why Dutch gives them food and drinks without requiring a shred of proof of their veteran status!" Arthur grumbled, tying his horse to the hitching post with a frustrated tug, his gaze sweeping over the bustling saloon entrance. "I'm sure there are non-veterans, mere vagrants, claiming to be veterans and getting free food and drinks here! Damn it, this must be a huge, unnecessary expense!" Arthur's gaze swept over the crowds constantly coming and going at the saloon entrance.

Some of these people wore military uniforms, looking exactly like grizzled, retired veterans, while others were simply ordinary workers going in for a cheap drink. According to this constant foot traffic, even if Dutch consistently provided the cheapest food and drinks, the monthly expenditure would be at least a thousand dollars, a significant drain on their burgeoning coffers.

Listening to Arthur's familiar complaints, Charles merely shrugged. "Alright, Arthur, don't complain. I did hear Hosea ask Dutch about this very thing. Dutch said not to worry about it at all, because beneficiaries won't easily let others share their benefits, even if those benefits are… free."

"What do you mean by that, Charles?" Arthur looked at Charles, a mixture of surprise and genuine emotion on his face. "Oh, Charles, are you speaking so profoundly now too? What kind of philosophical nonsense is this?" He and John followed Charles and Flying Eagle into the bustling saloon.

"No, that's not what I said, that's what Dutch said, his very words," Charles corrected calmly, a faint, knowing smile touching his lips. "But I can largely understand it. That is, these veterans won't let people impersonate them to collect these free drinks and food. We don't need to restrict them; they will proactively deal with these imposters themselves, with extreme prejudice." Charles extended a finger and pointed subtly towards the back door of the saloon.

Arthur and John, their curiosity piqued, followed his gaze. There, at the back door of the saloon, they saw a man being roughly carried out and unceremoniously thrown to the ground by two burly men in military uniforms, who were continuously cursing at him, their voices laced with righteous indignation.

"Shit! Next time I see you impersonating us, you worthless scum, it won't be as simple as just throwing you out!"

"Damn it, you took the benefits, so what do we get?!"

Watching the raw, violent scene unfolding at the back door of the saloon, Arthur silently, thoughtfully, closed his mouth, which had been ready to question Dutch's seemingly wasteful benevolence. The old man, it seemed, truly did understand human nature.

"Alright," Arthur finally exclaimed, shaking his head in reluctant admiration, "Dutch is truly becoming more and more amazing. He always seems to know everyone's thoughts, to anticipate their every move. I now suspect he might really be some kind of demon transformed to see into people's hearts, to read their very souls. Damn it, he's practically seen through human nature itself!"

However, just as he uttered this profound, if slightly blasphemous, exclamation, he felt a crumpled piece of paper, wadded into a tight ball, hit him squarely on the head.

"Fuck!" Arthur snapped, suddenly looking up, his eyes narrowing. He saw Dutch and Hosea leaning over the railing of the second-floor balcony, their faces split by broad, knowing smiles, clearly having overheard his very words.

"Oh ho ho, Arthur!" Dutch bellowed, his voice booming with good-natured amusement. "I heard you talking about old Dutch from right here! Come on, kid. Hold your profound thoughts for a bit, we'll talk later. Now hurry up and come up, we've been waiting for you for a long time!" Dutch held up a wine glass, gesturing playfully, urging the four men looking up from below to join them.

Having been caught red-handed speaking ill of Dutch, even if it was in a moment of grudging admiration, Arthur was uncharacteristically, delightfully, a bit embarrassed. He stopped talking, his usual cynical retorts forgotten, and followed silently behind Charles, Flying Eagle, and John, heading upstairs.

Upon entering the saloon, the distinction between the two floors was immediately, starkly clear. The first floor of the saloon was filled with boisterous workers or rowdy merchants who had come for drinks, their voices raised in a continuous clamor, shouting their gratitude for the Van der Linde Gang's glorious feats in clearing out gangs recently, which had made their lives exceptionally good. Meanwhile, the second floor of the saloon was entirely, exclusively, filled with veterans, a quiet, disciplined brotherhood. Each man had shadowed eyes, a haunted look, or a somewhat stern, unsmiling demeanor.

They drank and chatted in an orderly, hushed fashion, occasionally looking with respectful, almost reverent eyes towards Mr. Dutch Van der Linde, who was calmly smoking a cigar and drinking on the balcony, their patron saint. Newly discharged soldiers were easy to distinguish by their fresh uniforms, but the longer they were out, the harder it was to tell who was a genuine veteran.

However, certain jargon, certain shared experiences, and precise details about military life were only known to those truly within the service, which was why they, the veterans, could instantly tell if others were genuine veterans or mere imposters.

"Mr. Morgan!"

"Good day, Mr. Morgan, and good day to the other gentlemen!"

At this moment, seeing Charles, Arthur, and the others ascending the stairs, the veterans sitting in their seats all greeted them, their voices a respectful chorus. Even if they didn't know them at all personally, this didn't prevent these veterans from knowing precisely what their benefactors, those legendary figures with bounties as high as fifteen thousand and five thousand dollars plastered on West Elizabeth's wanted posters, looked like.

"Oh, hello, gentlemen!" Arthur and John exchanged a weary glance, feeling like they were getting numb from the sheer volume of greetings lately. Why do these people keep bothering them with greetings every single day? Couldn't they just pretend not to know them for once? Damn it, Arthur thought with an internal groan, he just wanted to have a drink in peace...