Federal Land

This here land, split up like a half-chewed dog biscuit, is a pure laugh, I tell ya. A federal system, they call it!

He puffed out his cheeks, then let out a sharp, dismissive exhale. 

Sounds grand, don't it? Like a fancy parlor room with too many doilies. Big on paper, sure, like a hog at a county fair. But in truth? Them states ain't worth a hoot to each other. They're like squabbling kinfolk at a funeral, each one eyeing the other's inheritance, and the Federal Government? Ha!

He slapped his knee, a wry grin splitting his face.

That toothless old hound can bark all it wants from Washington, but if folks ain't inclined to listen, ain't nobody gonna bother. They just turn a deaf ear and keep on plowin' their own row.

Why, it's about as useful as a screen door on a submarine when it comes to wrangling local squabbles.You got Texas, bless its stubborn hide, forever eyeing the door, itching to ride off into its own sunset, and that Federal Government? Couldn't manage to organize a two-horse funeral. Pure, unadulterated futility, that's what it is.

Now, this godforsaken, feudal mess of a nation, ripe for the pickin', well, it laid a silver platter right at Dutch Van der Linde's feet. An opportunity, by damn! An opportunity to sink his spurs into two whole states and still remain as untouchable as a ghost in a dust storm. Dutch would leaned back, a glint in his eye, perhaps stroking his impeccably trimmed moustache.

Under Dutch's masterful hand, every single cog in the machine was turning smooth as butter, slick as a snake in tall grass. Progress, pure and simple, was unfolding like a fresh deck of cards.

Most of them poor souls, the slaves of Guarma, they saw their chance and took it. They swarmed the port, a jittery, anxious mass, eyes wide with a desperate hope, just waiting for Dutch to ferry 'em off that cursed rock. You could see the terror etched into their very bones, hear it in the frantic whispers that buzzed through the air like agitated hornets. It made 'em blind to Dutch's silver tongue, deaf to his grand promises of a new system. Freedom, that's all they craved, a desperate, ravenous hunger for anything but Guarma. They hadn't yet cottoned on to the biting realities of life out there, the kind that can sneak up on ya like a hungry wolf.

But hell, anyplace, anywhere at all, was gonna be a sight better than rotting on Guarma, provided they could just shake the dust of that island off their boots.

Still, a brave, or perhaps foolhardy, handful chose to dig in their heels.

Take Herculi, for instance. The rebel leader, the one who rode with Arthur and the boys. Him and a dozen or so of his own, they stayed put. A stubborn bunch, that's what they were.

Beyond that small band, Mike and the others, they went through Guarma like a plague of locusts for two solid days, sweeping every last Spanish soldier off that island. Left it cleaner than a whistle, brought the whole darn place, every inch of it, under the iron-fisted control of the Van der Linde Gang.

And just like that, the Battle of Guarma, a proper blood and guts affair, was etched into history. Successfully, by God.

Well, time, that swift, unforgiving current, just poured through the hourglass. Before you could spit, a whole damn week had galloped by.

Guarma, a jewel in the ocean, shimmering like a mirage, was a pretty sight, alright. But pretty don't pay the bills, and its drawbacks were as plain as a pikestaff. First off, it was humid enough to drown a fish, hot as the devil's own forge, with swings in temperature that'd make a man's teeth chatter and sweat pour down his back like a waterfall. Second, snakes! Venomous critters and insects thick as flies on a carcass. And that swamp in the middle, a festering cesspool, why, it was home to more anacondas than a man could shake a stick at! The whole damn island, not just some mission hidey-hole, was teeming with 'em. The map don't lie, those pythons call that place home.

Two gulls, silent as secrets, sliced through the humid air above the sea, their flight momentarily cleaving the mirrored sunset below.

The sun itself, a monstrous, burning orange-red coin, hung low in the sky, dipping towards the horizon. It painted the entire ocean in a fiery, melancholic glow, turning Guarma into a masterpiece, but one that whispered of fleeting moments and time's relentless march.

Down at Guarma's makeshift port, sailboats bobbed in the harbor, lined up like ducks in a shooting gallery. A churning tide of workers, thick as ants, poured in and out of the newly slapped-together docks, hauling cargo from the vessels.

Most of these sailing beasts were getting ready to cut bait and leave Guarma behind, carrying a payload of eight hundred hardened gunmen.

These fellas, every last one of 'em, had a date with Mr. Van der Linde and Saint Denis, a city just begging to be taken. So, back to the mainland they had to go.

But don't you go thinking Guarma was left bare. Oh no, the number of men dug in here was five hundred strong, a sizable force indeed.

*********************

"Arthur, you hear me? Remember to keep Dutch safe!" Hosea's voice, as predictable as a sunrise, nagged at Arthur like a persistent fly. Hosea wagged a finger right under Arthur's nose, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Oh, for the love of—Hosea, for the past two days, every time you lay eyes on me, that's all that tumbles outta your mouth!" Arthur groaned, clutching his head like it might burst."I ain't John Marston; I can understand plain human speech! You don't gotta beat it into me with a stick!" His face was a hairy mess, a full beard he hadn't touched since God knows when. Americans, bless their wild souls, grew hair like a badger. He looked more savage than a mountain man, utterly unfit for polite company.

"Shit, Morgan!" John, whose own face was equally obscured by a forest of whiskers, snarled, his eyes narrowed into slits. He looked like he wanted to plant a fist right on Arthur's overgrown jaw.

This past week, Hosea had piled more tasks on Arthur than a mule could carry: first, cracking the whip over the Guarma folk, getting them to chop trees and raise houses. Then, a quick trip back to round up the construction and production crews they'd trained, bringing 'em back with a heap of building materials.

The cargo being loaded onto those sailboats now? That'd be concrete for them bunkers, and all manner of other supplies. The kind of stuff that turns a ramshackle camp into a proper fortress.

Machinery, well, that's another tale for another day. Things like that, they take time to birth in this here era. Like pulling teeth, it is.

The three of 'em, squabbling like a pack of stray dogs over a bone, were a sight to behold. Meanwhile, Dutch, still looking like he'd just stepped out of a tailor's shop, his beard a work of art, sat astride his pristine white horse. He was perched on the jagged rocks at the island's edge, gazing out at the sunset, his eyes fixed on the tireless dance of workers and the endless parade of sailboats hauling their precious cargo. A true vision of aloof grandeur.

"Still unwilling to step out and cast your gaze upon the world, Mr. Herculi?" Dutch's voice cut through the air, low and even, his eyes still fixed on the distant horizon.

"No, Mr. Van der Linde," the black man, Herculi, responded, his voice a low growl. "Whether I show my face or keep it hidden, this country is a festering wound, beyond all hope. At least here, thanks to your boundless generosity and… kindness, I can live a decent life. But truth be told, the main reason? I'm waiting for Fusal to return. And then..." A fierce, deadly glint ignited in Herculi's eyes, sharp as a knife.

Killing Fusal. That wasn't just an aim; it was a fire burning in his very soul, an obsession hotter than a branding iron.

"Alright, alright, I believe I can plumb the depths of your indignation." Dutch turned slowly, his gaze finally meeting Herculi's, a grand gesture of understanding. (He'd spread his hands wide, a theatrical shrug.) "America, my friend, is a rotten apple, spoiled to the very core. I can practically sniff the stench of its decay from here. I suppose that, in itself, is why I find myself standing on this godforsaken rock, isn't it? As I've said, Mr. Herculi, this society, this broken, pathetic husk, it needs me to mend it. And men like Mr. Fusal, they are but thorns in the side of progress, weeds that must be pulled from the earth . Well, sir, enjoy your tranquil existence. I do believe it's high time we made our exit."

Dutch turned, a brief, sharp nod to Herculi, then his gaze swept over to Arthur, who, by now, was lazily puffing on a cigarette with John, both of 'em looking like they'd been carved from the very dust. "Arthur, son, I reckon it's time for us to ride. Hosea, this place, its fate, rests in your capable hands. John, you guard Hosea with your very life! I'd be damned if our dear old man kicks the bucket just when he's about to taste the sweet nectar of life!"

"Sure thing, Dutch!" John affirmed, giving a sharp nod, then fell into step behind Hosea, a loyal shadow.

"So, we're off then?" Arthur straightened up, turning his shaggy head to look at John and Hosea, a puff of smoke escaping his lips.

"Go on, Arthur," Hosea said, a contented smile creasing his weathered face as he clapped Arthur on the shoulder. "Protect Dutch. I've got a feeling, a good feeling, that when we return, the Van der Linde Gang will be basking in a glory, a splendor, unlike anything this world has ever seen!" Hosea's eyes gleamed with a quiet pride, a knowing look passing between them.

"Hahaha, we're different now, son. By God, we're truly different." Dutch's words, a low, triumphant rumble, were carried on the wind.

The sunset, a final, lingering caress of orange and red, slowly melted into the sea. With its last, fading afterglow, the sailboat fleet, a ghostly armada, shrank into the horizon, vanishing from the watchful eyes of Hosea and the others, leaving nothing but the vast, empty expanse of the ocean.