Water

"YIPPEE KI-YAY!" The triumphant bellow sliced through the morning air as five horses, magnificent beasts of speed and muscle, thundered out of Shady Belle. They galloped like a whirlwind, blurring past one hastily erected fortress after another, their destination: the glittering, grimy jewel of Saint Denis.

As the undisputed leader of the Van der Linde Gang, Dutch Van der Linde was finally beginning to savor his ascended status. Oh, the sheer luxury of it! Traveling not just with a retinue, but with four imposing, impeccably dressed bodyguards. He practically preened in his saddle.

"Arthur, my boy," Dutch announced, leaning conspiratorially towards his lieutenant, who rode with a familiar slump beside him, "we shall first grace Signor Bronte's humble abode. That poor, pathetic clown has at long last found his personal spring. I'm quite certain Signor Bronte will be... overjoyed with the results of our recent endeavors." A sly, knowing smile played on Dutch's lips, almost predatory in its satisfaction.

Arthur, however, merely scratched his head, a deep furrow appearing between his brows. His brow was permanently etched with a confusion that ran as deep as a riverbed. "Oh, Dutch," he mumbled, sounding genuinely perplexed. He gestured vaguely with one hand, as if trying to untangle an invisible knot. "I still don't quite fathom why we're polishing Signor Bronte boots. We just kicked him to the curb, right? Ground him into dust. And now we're... lifting him back up? It's truly, utterly, completely unreasonable."

Arthur's simple, honest mind simply couldn't wrap itself around such a convoluted problem. Or perhaps, more accurately, he couldn't grasp the intricate, back-stabbing dance of this "high society" charade.

Indeed, the entire Van der Linde Gang, a motley crew of stubborn individualists, struggled with this very concept. It was precisely why they had so vehemently resisted the creeping tendrils of the modern era, the insidious march of civilization. They simply couldn't adapt to a society that had, seemingly overnight, become as convoluted and treacherous as a rattlesnake's nest. Even Mac, the gang's walking embodiment of unreliability – a man so erratic he'd been summarily expelled from the "reliable" Van der Linde Gang – couldn't begin to comprehend this so-called civilization.

"Arthur," Dutch sighed, a profound, almost theatrical exasperation washing over his face. He shook his head slowly, a gesture that conveyed a million years of wisdom contrasted with Arthur's apparent caveman intellect. He even pinched the bridge of his nose for dramatic effect.

"Oh, Arthur, how, how did your brain ever manage to develop, son? I recall, quite distinctly, that I've already lectured you on this, haven't I? In the rarefied air of high society, there is only eternal profit, my dull-witted protégé. There is no so-called 'enmity,' no 'alliance.' Damn it, they're not like us, the Van der Linde Gang, son. I dare say, only our gang in this whole wide world would be so gloriously different! So when you're dealing with them, if you just grasp the concept of 'profit,' you'll glide through their murky waters like a fish!"

Dutch's eyes scanned the horizon, a knowing smirk on his lips. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, though loud enough for Arthur to hear, "I originally harbored the notion of molding you to take my place, but now it seems it's safer to simply groom young Jack to succeed me." The words stung Arthur's pride, inflicting a slight intellectual humiliation.

But, to his credit, he didn't outwardly flinch. Instead, Dutch's remark merely made him recall the adorable, perpetually curious little Jack. The thought, incongruous as it was amidst Dutch's lecture, made Arthur let out a few soft, self-deprecating chuckles.

"Heh heh… Well, I suppose Jack is quite suitable for your... unique position, ah," Arthur mused, a wry smile twitching at his lips as he shook his head. "Though I very much doubt I'll live to see that day. Seems a tad bit too far off, don't you think?" He smiled, the future a hazy, distant blur. Little Jack, the gang's universally adored little darling, was certainly beyond reproach; no one would ever complain about Jack eventually stepping into Dutch's (presumably large) boots.

"Ugh… You should really save your headache-inducing theories for educating Jack; I, for one, won't be learning them," Arthur continued, waving a dismissive hand. "I don't think I could ever learn 'em, even if I tried for a hundred years."

"SHT!, ARTHUR, THIS IS A STUPID QUESTION!" Dutch practically bellowed, his face contorting into an expression of sheer disbelief. He threw his hands up in the air, then slapped them against his thighs with a resounding thwack. "We fought Signor Bronte before because it was profitable for us to fight him! We could survive by exploiting those sniveling families, and even leverage their influence! That was for our PROFIT! And now, helping Signor Bronte? That's to fight the entrenched Saint Denis families, so we can sweep in, solve all their petty squabbles, and control Saint Denis ourselves! Which, I might add, is ALSO FOR OUR PROFIT!"

Dutch leaned close, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, his eyes wide and intense, practically boring into Arthur's soul. "Compared to those decrepit, inbred families in Saint Denis, Signor Bronte is a simpleton! A puppet we can easily control! So, using Signor Bronte to gain the upper hand over the Saint Denis families perfectly aligns with our interests! Damn it, can't you wrap your pea-sized brain around such a simple principle?! Your name is Arthur Morgan, you idiot, not John Marston!"

Dutch's incandescent scolding echoed along the sun-drenched road. He kept his head down, lips pursed, an endless stream of curses and exasperated lectures flowing towards Arthur, who, by now, was flustered and crimson-faced, shrinking slightly in his saddle like a scolded puppy. He dared not utter a single retort.

Finally, with an air of theatrical grandeur, the group of five arrived outside the formidable, wrought-iron gates of Signor Bronte's mansion in Saint Denis.

At the entrance to the enormous Bronte estate, impeccably uniformed armed guards stood at attention, their rifles gleaming in the sunlight, beside a perfectly coiffed doorman. Compared to before Signor Bronte's recent fall from grace, there was no reduction in his imposing presence; in fact, the mansion looked even more refined, more polished, as if desperately trying to project an air of unassailable power.

This, of course, was merely a grand display of outward strength masking inner weakness, a fierce demeanor concealing a deep, quivering timidity.

With the arrival of Dutch and his entourage, there was no need for Dutch to even open his mouth. The doorman, a man clearly well-versed in the art of self-preservation, immediately scurried forward, bowing so low his nose nearly scraped the cobblestones.

"Respected Mr. Van der Linde," the doorman stammered, his voice laced with a mixture of terror and awe, "please, pray, wait but a moment! We shall inform Signor Bronte right away." It was an open secret within the mansion that Dutch Van der Linde had, quite literally, become Signor Bronte's waking nightmare.

During this period, Signor Bronte seemed to have developed a rather peculiar form of hysteria. He would often sit alone in his lavish study, and at some utterly unpredictable moment, he would suddenly erupt, shouting curses and vitriol at the top of his lungs, all directed at the phantom of Dutch Van der Linde. A moment later, he might be grinding his teeth together so hard, the sound echoed through the silent halls.

Indeed, whether it was the patrolling gunmen or the servants tiptoeing through the rooms, everyone knew that Signor Bronte was a ticking time bomb of insults, liable to explode at any given second. The content of his outbursts varied wildly, a colorful tapestry of rage:

"F**K, VAN DER LINDE! What kind of inbred trash are you, you country bumpkin?!"

"SHT!, you grotesque pig! You're a blight upon this city!"

"Damned country simpleton! Filthy, unwashed idiot! A disgrace to humanity!"

This profoundly abnormal behavior had, predictably, caused everyone within the Bronte household to seriously commit the appearance of the Van der Linde Gang members to memory, ensuring they could recognize them instantly and thus, avoid any further incidents or hysterical episodes from their boss.

And now, their diligent memorization paid off handsomely.

Listening to the butler's almost obsequious words, Dutch merely offered a small, smug smile and a condescending nod. "Of course, good sir," he purred, his voice dripping with ironic politeness, "that is, indeed, your solemn duty."

The three formidable gunmen Dutch had brought along flanked the entrance, standing as rigid as statues. Their imposing presence, coupled with their elegant, uniform attire, projected an aura of cold, undeniable power. This kind of display truly and terrifyingly reflected Mr. Van der Linde's current status in the underworld.