Them

The subtle artistry of Rhodes Brown's preceding sentences was nothing short of a masterpiece; they didn't just hint, they practically slammed the truth home with the precision of a well-aimed bullet.

It was an unspoken challenge, a silk-gloved gauntlet thrown down: "Dutch Van der Linde, since you parade as such a grand master of commerce, why, pray tell, do you not deem me worthy enough to ride on your coattails and get filthy rich?"

Listening to Mr. Rhodes Brown's subtly prodding words, Arthur merely shifted uncomfortably, a slight tremor in his hand as he picked up the wine glass. He mumbled, eyes fixed on some distant, safer point beyond the opulent walls,

"I don't know Signkr Martelli or that Francisco… so I don't think I'd be in a position to know." He offered a shrug, as if the entire concept of judging rival gunmen was beneath his refined sensibilities.

Dutch, ever the showman, smoothly stepped in, a dazzling smile stretching across his face, radiating pure, unadulterated charm.

"Hahaha, Mr. Brown," he chuckled, his voice like rich velvet. "Let us leave the intriguing question of who wields a deadlier pistol, Arthur or your men, for a later, more spirited debate. For now, I believe I possess the precise solution to your current... dilemma. To be entirely frank, my purpose in gracing your exquisite abode this time is to discuss a rather mutually beneficial business proposition."

Dutch laughed, a hearty, booming sound, as he took the wine glass Mr. Brown had graciously offered, then, with an almost insolent nonchalance, placed it directly onto the polished mahogany table without taking a sip.

Mr. Brown, however, appeared utterly unfazed by Dutch's directness. Not a twitch of an eyebrow, not a flicker of impatience in his eyes, as if Dutch's words were but faint whispers on the wind. Instead, he meticulously focused on pouring a deep, shimmering red wine into his own glass, then, with an almost practiced flourish, extended it to Arthur.

"Quickly, Mr. Van der Linde, do taste it," Mr. Brown urged, his voice as smooth as aged whiskey. "This, my dear sir, is a truly magnificent vintage, painstakingly transported all the way from the East. When I ventured to Saint Denis, I made sure to dedicate a specific, rather generous space in my carriage to ensure its safe passage. I trust it will not disappoint your discerning palate." Mr. Brown raised his glass, inviting both Dutch and Arthur to join him in a toast, his eyes subtly observing their reactions.

Dutch nodded with a slow, deliberate smile. He picked up his neglected glass from the table again, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, and with a soft, knowing chuckle, clinked it against Mr. Brown's. "Of course, Mr. Brown, of course! Oh, I've never had the distinct pleasure of tasting a fine wine from the illustrious East. Cheers!"

"Cheers!" Arthur, too, reluctantly raised the wine glass in his hand. He shot a quick, bewildered glance at Dutch, who met his gaze with a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. In that tiny gesture, Arthur understood Dutch's silent command: Relax, my boy. Let the peacock preen. Let's enjoy the show.

Dutch, now completely at ease, settled back, the business proposition momentarily forgotten. He smiled, his lips barely parting, as he slowly, almost sensuously, savored the rich red wine on his tongue.

These damned capitalists, he mused, always adhered to this infuriating, drawn-out approach. They loved to let everything hang in the air, a deliberate, calculated indifference designed to convey their utter lack of urgency, thereby extracting greater concessions in the inevitably prolonged negotiations. After all, those begging for favors would naturally be the first to break, to succumb to the gnawing anxiety. But Dutch? Oh, Dutch was not anxious. Not in the slightest. He could wait all day. And then some.

"Arthur," Dutch declared, breaking the comfortable silence, "since Mr. Brown clearly possesses such a keen interest in marksmen, why don't you offer him a little demonstration of your… talents? Of course, Mr. Brown, I do wonder if this grand hall is a suitable venue? Or perhaps we could migrate to my humble abode? I would be utterly delighted to fulfill my duties as a most gracious host!"

Listening to Dutch's utterly unexpected proposition, Mr. Brown displayed a hint of genuine surprise for the very first time. His carefully composed mask wavered, and his eyes widened ever so slightly. He looked at Dutch, a flicker of astonishment across his features. "Oh, Mr. Van der Linde," he began, his voice laced with uncharacteristic eagerness, "how could I possibly be unavailable for such a kind invitation? In truth, I've always harbored a rather profound curiosity about you. Hahaha, and I do confess, I require a certain… reason to maintain frequent contact with Miss Camille, you understand. If you were to agree to permit me a discreet visit to your current establishment, then I could, with a clear conscience, report your most remarkable situation directly to Miss Camille herself. I trust you comprehend my delicate predicament?"

What he said was already strikingly obvious, laid bare like a dissected frog. To approach a figure of Camille Morgan's stature, one naturally needed a plausible, socially acceptable excuse for frequent contact. Simply showering her with gifts was uncouth and ineffective for a man of Brown's standing, and pursuing her romantically was utter nonsense. Mr. Brown was a married man, and Mrs. Camille Morgan was a woman utterly obsessed with power.

She remained unmarried precisely so she could, in time, seize control of the Morgan Family's assets, even if only a formidable portion. Thus, at present, there was no acceptable pretext for fostering a closer relationship. But Dutch Van der Linde, the enigmatic outlaw who had previously captivated Miss Camille's fleeting attention, was, without a shadow of a doubt, his perfect, God-given excuse.

Dutch, of course, understood the naked meaning behind Brown's thinly veiled words and couldn't help but allow his smile to broaden into a truly dazzling, predatory grin.

"Hahaha, of course, Mr. Brown, of course!" Dutch boomed, rising to his feet with renewed vigor. "Oh, without further ado, let us set forth this very instant! Perhaps my current… achievements... can truly astonish Miss Camille! And naturally, I have always, always harbored the deepest desire to cooperate with the illustrious Morgan Family!"

Dutch drained the red wine in his glass in a single, decisive gulp, then, with a flourish, stood up and strode purposefully out, Arthur and a slightly bewildered Mr. Rhodes Brown falling in behind him. As for what they were going to see during this impromptu "visit"? It was simple, yet utterly brilliant: just Shady Belle. First, its proximity was ideal; Mr. Rhodes Brown certainly wouldn't tolerate a jarring, bumpy journey all the way to Valentine. Second, and crucially, Valentine currently housed the Van der Linde Gang's deeply guarded firearms secrets. As a secondary, more "civilized" factory, Shady Belle was the absolute best choice.

And as long as he could successfully leverage the colossal power of the Morgan Family, then Dutch Van der Linde would, with a terrifying precision, directly send his troops into Saint Denis. He would seize power overnight, imprison the sniveling nobles, and engulf the entire city in one swift, ruthless movement! The sheer, unassailable power of the Morgan Family was more than enough to ensure that this audacious coup would be minimized, smoothed over, brushed under the rug. This, ultimately, was the fundamental, ingenious reason why Dutch's intricate plans were linked, step by terrifying step.

Several fast horses thundered out of the opulent Brown mansion, their hoofbeats echoing like distant thunder. And like wildfire, this shocking news quickly spread among the gossiping, terrified families of Saint Denis. In fact, the very moment Dutch had swaggered with Arthur into Mr. Rhodes Brown's mansion, the major families of Saint Denis had already received the breathless, frantic reports.

At this very moment, deep within the dimly lit, suffocatingly grand villa at Lemieux Manor, a familiar study held three familiar, increasingly agitated souls: Henry Lemieux, Pierce Hattie, and Jessica Wicklow.

Jessica sat perched on the sofa, her expression as gloomy as a storm cloud, her manicured fingers unconsciously, rhythmically tapping a nervous tattoo on the polished table. "So," she hissed, her voice barely above a whisper, "Dutch Van der Linde has now boarded the Morgan Family's ship? And what, pray tell, becomes of our meticulously crafted plan then?!"

Mr. Henry's expression, however, remained unnervingly calm. He held a delicate fountain pen in his hand, meticulously writing and drawing on a fresh sheet of paper. He was, in fact, composing a rather lengthy, obsequious letter to his new patron, Mr. Cornwall. The "Indian problem" had, during this period, been quite successfully "resolved," a neat little trick that had not only earned him Mr. Cornwall's invaluable friendship but had also secured a generous sponsorship for his family.

Better yet, the Lemieux Family's ancient, if somewhat faded, status had allowed him to successfully infiltrate Mr. Cornwall's exclusive, moneyed circle. He'd even snagged a golden opportunity to invest in the lucrative oil business within the very Indian reservation they'd just "cleared." Mr. Henry's primary attention was now entirely focused on this glittering new venture, and his interest in the troublesome Mr. Dutch Van der Linde had, rather dramatically, diminished.

Of course, "diminished interest" did not equate to utter disregard. In fact, he had quietly made new arrangements for their previous joint annexation plan. Having cemented his connection with Mr. Cornwall, he now harbored no intention whatsoever of sharing the profits equally among the three families; no, he planned to greedily monopolize it himself.

Listening to Jessica's increasingly shrill question, Mr. Henry pondered for a moment, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Then, he delivered his verdict with an air of profound, infuriating wisdom. "Don't rush, Jessica. Let us simply… wait a little longer. Perhaps Dutch Van der Linde entered Mr. Rhodes Brown's mansion for other, entirely different reasons? So, let us simply exercise patience. Things, my dear, will always become clear in time!" He offered a small, infuriatingly serene smile.

"WAIT?!" Pierce Hattie shrieked, his voice cracking with a raw, uncharacteristic desperation. He was usually the picture of meticulous caution, but now he was practically vibrating with fear. "How can we possibly afford to wait now?! Bronte is still up to his vile tricks; his hired gunmen are practically glued to our manor, monitoring our every move! Our every breath is under his surveillance! How can we wait?! I, for one, do not wish to wake up one night with a damned gun pressed against my temple!" Pierce, uncharacteristically, said through gritted teeth, his face a sickly pale green. Signor Bronte had, indeed, thoroughly infuriated him during this time. The constant presence of lurking thugs around the Hattie Manor had stripped him of his precious sense of security, and for a master of caution like Pierce, that was the most agonizing torment imaginable.

"Enough, Pierce!" Mr. Henry snapped, his patience visibly fraying, a sharp, irritated edge to his voice. He slammed his fountain pen down with a decisive click. "Can you not, for the love of all that is holy, be so utterly anxious?! What precisely are you so terrified of? Even if Bronte suddenly sprouted a hundred guts, he wouldn't dare to directly attack us! So why, I ask you, can we not simply wait? We've waited so many years for our turn, what's two more days in the grand scheme of things?"

Mr. Henry rebuked, dismissing them with a flick of his wrist, no longer bothering to pay attention to these two trembling, neurotic fools. Once his connection with Mr. Cornwall solidified, he would, with the vast resources at Cornwall's disposal, be able to further consolidate Saint Denis. By then, whether it was these pathetic, so-called "families" or pathetic scoundrels like Bronte and Dutch Van der Linde, they would all be forced to meekly, obediently, step by step, allow themselves to be devoured by him!

Mr. Henry and the two others sat in the grand, suffocating room, each cradling their own little, deluded thoughts, completely, blissfully unaware that the people truly monitoring them during this time were not Signor Bronte's men at all. Oh no. They were Mr. Dutch Van der Linde's silent, unseen agents. Their family members' details, their precise identity information, their meticulously logged daily routines, and even the intricate blueprints of their very villas – every scrap of damning intelligence had already reached Mr. Van der Linde's ruthless hands, just waiting for the perfect moment of alliance with the Morgan Family to proceed directly with their annihilation.