Powerless

Dutch's grand design was, in essence, utterly unassailable. He hadn't just risen to power; he had become the power, a living, breathing, impeccably dressed force of nature. His meticulous arrangements across New Hanover had rendered the official government there as helpless as a newborn kitten in a hurricane.

Without the heavy, cumbersome boot of the United States Federal Government trampling in, no single state in America, at this particular juncture, possessed the muscle or the will to rein him in.

Deep beneath the rolling hills, the bunkers continued their relentless construction, six men to a shift, a tireless ballet of sweat and grit ensuring they were always operational, always ready. Concurrently, the Van der Linde Gang's ranks swelled, a steady stream of hardened veterans and eager gunmen flocking to their banner, drawn by the promise of order and purpose.

At Hope Happiness Ranch, a marvel of ingenuity had taken root: a rifle production line and a dedicated bullet production line, humming with quiet efficiency. They were already churning out semi-automatic rifles, forged from meticulously sourced materials, destined to arm every single one of Dutch's burgeoning army.

The architecture of a gun, while deceptively simple, was far from it in its intricacies. Yet, in terms of raw material cost, a mere dollar could conjure two, sometimes even three, gleaming rifles. The selling price? An astonishing one hundred seventy-five dollars per piece! This wasn't merely profitable; this was pure, unadulterated, unholy profiteering! Therefore, the arms business wasn't just a good idea; it was an absolute, non-negotiable imperative. It had to begin, and it had to begin now!

With the master plan etched in stone, Dutch and his trusted lieutenants began to execute it in meticulously planned phases. As the gang's charismatic leader, the lion's share of the strategic implementation, naturally, fell to him.

"Clip-clop, clip-clop…"

The rhythmic thud of hooves echoed on the dusty road, a familiar symphony as they departed from Rhodes, their destination the tranquil haven of Shady Belle. Dutch, as always, led the charge, his back ramrod straight in the saddle. Hosea rode effortlessly to his right, Arthur to his left, while John, Flying Eagle, and Charles followed in their wake, a silent, formidable procession.

"Hosea, when we return," Dutch began, his voice carrying easily over the clatter, "you absolutely must continue expanding those sheds. I believe our arms business cannot be confined solely to Guarma. A cunning rabbit, my dear friend, needs at least three burrows! Our arms enterprise, too, requires several strategically dispersed locations!" He glanced over his shoulder, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"Of course, Dutch." Hosea nodded sagely, stroking his chin. "As we discussed, one arms factory at Van Horn Trading Post, and another at Hope Happiness Ranch?" The issue had been thoroughly debated, meticulously ironed out between them.

Transportation in this era was, to put it mildly, rudimentary. Dutch, ever the pragmatist, felt that establishing only one colossal arms factory across such a vast expanse would be akin to pouring molasses uphill—far too slow, far too inefficient, a definite hindrance to the glorious torrent of incoming cash. So, he had decreed two arms factories for New Hanover alone: one to cater to the needs of New Hanover and Lemoyne, the other to serve Elizabeth and the northern reaches of New Hanover, thereby dramatically boosting their production capacity.

As for whether anyone would actually want their meticulously crafted arms? That wasn't even a fleeting concern. Dutch had guns, and Dutch had men. If you didn't want them, well, then you'd simply have to take them! Compulsory sales, disguised as opening the door for "free trade"—that was true commerce! None of this passive merchant behavior, meekly waiting for customers to wander in. The best salespeople, Dutch firmly believed, actively created their clientele.

"Yes, Hosea. We must ensure sufficient production capacity to monopolize the world's arms market! To ensure we have an endless, flowing river of money! Honestly, I don't particularly fancy being a so-called senator; such an identity is hardly as… unburdened as our current arrangement." Dutch threw back his head and laughed, a rich, booming sound that echoed across the plains.

"Indeed, Dutch. Our current life… it's truly the best." Hosea smiled, nodding in agreement. Hadn't freedom been the very bedrock of their outlaw existence? Wasn't the entire purpose of their newfound military might and burgeoning firearms production to secure that freedom, to possess power while remaining gloriously, defiantly unchained? As long as they commanded a formidable military force, they could have whatever their hearts desired, a far more comfortable existence than the gilded cage of a presidency, wouldn't you agree?

Hosea's gaze lingered on the dirt road before them, a genuine fondness in his eyes as he admired the now-bustling artery of commerce in Rhodes, a road that was unequivocally loyal to them. The sheer number of carriages and horses traversing it was staggering compared to before. Many were laden with goods, destined for Valentine, or even the grand metropolis of Saint Denis.

While Dutch had primarily focused on eradicating gangs within New Hanover, Rhodes and Shady Belle, technically in Lemoyne, had also reaped the benefits, with local gangs driven to near extinction. Even the notorious Lemoyne Raiders had been thoroughly trounced, forced to flee towards West Elizabeth during this period, leaving behind a completely safe and open environment for the public.

Consequently, the number of merchants venturing into New Hanover, including the once-treacherous Saint Denis and Rhodes areas, had surged. People traveling long distances for work had also skyrocketed. This transformation had, undeniably, birthed an era of unprecedented peace, prosperity, and vibrant activity in the region.

Hosea watched the occasional carriages roll by, observed the merchants chatting and laughing without a hint of vigilance, their faces relaxed. He saw pedestrians riding horses or simply walking to distant towns, and an involuntary, genuine smile spread across his face.

"Oh, Dutch," Hosea exclaimed softly, emotion coloring his voice. "I feel like we've truly become the people we always wanted to be."

Dutch, never one to miss a prime opportunity for a heartwarming, inspirational speech, spread his hands wide, gesturing towards the passersby and merchants before them. His voice swelled with genuine emotion.

"Yes, Hosea, my dear friend. No matter how many good deeds we performed before, we could never truly shed the stigma of being outlaws. In the eyes of these folk, we remained terrifying gang members, not the benevolent figures who 'robbed the rich to help the poor' that we aspired to be. But now, look around, Hosea! Arthur, John, Charles, Flying Eagle! Look around, gentlemen! Every single person here is living a genuinely safe and stable life, all because of our actions. They no longer cower in fear of danger; they can strive to make their lives better and better, without a constant dread hanging over them. I believe, only now, have we truly embodied the ideals we always fought for!"

And Arthur, the perpetually cynical Arthur, who had been openly mocking Dutch's oratorical flourishes back in the saloon, was now listening with extraordinary attentiveness, even nodding unconsciously. His gaze followed Dutch's words, sweeping across the peaceful landscape, before he finally let out a sincere sigh. "Yes, Dutch. We've done a really good job, haven't we? I… I think this is the kind of life you truly wanted."

"Yes, my boy," Dutch said, his expression softening, a hand resting briefly on Arthur's shoulder. "But it's not just what I wanted. It's what we wanted." His tone was exceptionally serious, cementing the shared purpose.

Arthur nodded vigorously, a rare sense of profound shared honor washing over him. He wholeheartedly agreed with Dutch's words, watching the steady stream of passerbies, and thinking, Dutch… you truly are astonishing! Oh, Dutch was truly, truly astonishing!

Listening to the earnest conversation unfolding before him, John, bringing up the rear, felt an uncharacteristic urge to contribute, to perhaps offer a word or two to express his own inner… feelings. So, he let out a wry chuckle. "Oh, Morgan," John drawled, a mischievous glint in his eye, "I'm sure four or five months ago, when we saw these same people, what we were really thinking was how to rob them all blind!"

"Shit! Ugh, Marston!" Arthur exploded, his face twisting into a mask of pure disgust. "You don't understand a single damn thing we're talking about! Damn it, can you just shut your horse-dung-smelling mouth?!"

"Fuck, Morgan!" John Marston, the legendary Snow Mountain Werewolf, a man whose scarred face usually projected cold, ruthless menace, was broken by Arthur's scathing insult, his tough-guy façade crumbling into aggrieved indignation.

However, compared to John's momentary emotional breakdown, West Elizabeth was probably in an even worse state of utter collapse. Because whether it was the large or small gangs of New Hanover, or even those from Lemoyne, every last one of them, during this period, had either been caught and incarcerated, or brutally eliminated. And those few who did manage to escape? They certainly weren't foolish enough to flee into the unforgiving snow-capped peaks of Ambarino. No, their only desperate refuge was West Elizabeth. Now, West Elizabeth was truly and completely broken.

Originally, West Elizabeth already harbored the notoriously brutal Howling Wolf Gang and the savage Skinners, not to mention a rather lukewarm, but still troublesome, Laramy Gang. These existing factions had already made life a miserable, hellish existence for the beleaguered people of West Elizabeth. And now, with two more large, desperate state gangs pouring in, it was no longer a territory; it was a chaotic, blood-soaked gang free-for-all.

Currently, only the formidable Blackwater Town in West Elizabeth still maintained a semblance of strong security; every other wretched locale was forced to play a never-ending, brutal round of Western Battle Royale. It was painfully easy to imagine the depths of powerlessness and despair the West Elizabeth government must be feeling right now.