Anger

Old Herculi, bless his stubborn heart, was still stewing on Guarma, nursing a bitter hatred for Mr. Fusal. Little did he know, that particular pot of revenge was about to boil over, but not in the way he'd dreamt.

Right here, at the gaping maw of the Annesburg mine, three brand-spanking-new chairs stood sentinel. Mr. Cornwall, a man who smelled of money and brimstone, occupied one. Mr. Fusal, slick as an oiled rattlesnake, took another. And on the third? An uninvited guest, a face that could curdle milk: Lemieux.

Now, Leviticus Cornwall, that titan of industry, that baron of the West, he didn't just walk; he cast a shadow. His influence stretched longer than a liar's tongue, reaching even into the very guts of the Western army. As for his coffers, well, Signor Bronte, with all his flashy trinkets and free-flowing cash, was but a pauper by comparison. In total assets, Cornwall was the undisputed king, a bull elephant in a china shop, with more wealth than a man could count in a lifetime.

Mr. Cornwall, with the ease of a man commanding the very air he breathed, merely flicked two fingers. He made a tiny, imperious gesture with his index and middle finger. Quicker than a blink, the attendant, hovering like a nervous shadow, plucked a fat cigar from a nearby table, put a flame to its tip with a kerosene lighter, and then, with the reverence of a preacher, slipped it right between Cornwall's waiting digits.

"Whoosh!" Cornwall took a short, sharp draw on the cigar, his cheeks hollowing slightly, then slowly, almost languidly, exhaled a plume of thick, white smoke. He didn't smoke cigars, mind you; he inhaled their very essence, savoring the fragrant tendrils that coiled in the air, a testament to his refined savagery. The scent of it hung heavy, rich, and full-bodied.

From the black gullet of the mine behind them, the air carried a symphony of misery: the occasional shriek of a miner, punctuated by the dull thud of a beating.

Mr. Cornwall, you see, hadn't come to Annesburg for the scenery. He was here to wrestle with the pesky problem of his miners playing hooky. And by the sounds of it, that particular problem was being hammered out, quite literally.

The three men on their fine chairs paid no more mind to the subterranean caterwauling than a dog does to its fleas. Only Cornwall, his patience as thin as a widow's last dime, finally roared, his voice rattling the very timber of the mine entrance.

"Damn it all!" He slammed a fist on the armrest of his chair, making the cigar jump. "Keep that racket down in there! You're disturbing our conversation, you mangy curs!"

At Cornwall's thunderous bellow, the cacophony from within the mine took a sharp, noticeable dive. The screams, blessedly, morphed into muffled whimpers, as if a hundred mouths had suddenly found themselves acquainted with a gag. The sound, now significantly softer, became a mere background hum to the lords of the earth.

Only then, with the auditory nuisance somewhat tamed, did Mr. Cornwall deign to properly begin his discourse.

"So, Mr. Lemieux," Cornwall leaned forward, his eyes narrowing, a vein throbbing faintly in his temple, "the United States Federal Government truly ain't gonna bother with this Guarma business? A chunk of land that big, just… handed over? And to a common desperado, at that!" He finished, a sneer twisting his lips as he flicked ash from his cigar.

This very morning, Mr. Lemieux had graced Annesburg with his presence, arriving by boat. This dusty burg wasn't a stone's throw from Saint Denis, and travel by water, he reasoned, was slicker than a buttered pig and a sight safer than a train. After all, in Mr. Lemieux's delicate mind, anything beyond the pampered confines of Saint Denis was a lawless wasteland, crawling with gangs of cutthroats and ne'er-do-wells. What if some low-down bandit dared to hold up his train? His life, by God, was no laughing matter.

This fastidious concern, ironically, meant Mr. Lemieux had dodged the Van der Linde Gang's prying eyes and their land checks. And in doing so, he'd missed his golden chance to stumble upon their burgeoning stronghold. Not that he'd set out to spy; no, he was here to grease the wheels for Mr. Cornwall, securing a deeper, more profitable partnership between the two vultures.

Listening to Cornwall's irate query, Mr. Lemieux nodded, a sigh escaping his lips that was more helplessness than actual wind. Lemieux threw his hands up, palms open, in a gesture of utter surrender. "Yes, Mr. Cornwall. That rogue, Van der Linde… I swear, I don't know how he did it, but he managed to hitch his wagon to the Morgan Family's star. And you know, when the Morgans speak, the whole damn United States listens, every last soul. Guarma, bless its humid heart, ain't even an American island. Barely a blip on the map, even next to Cuba. For a speck of dirt like that, the Morgan Family could swallow it whole without so much as a hiccup." He gestured a swallowing motion with his hand. "It's not part of the American mainland, merely a colonial afterthought."

"So, three days ago, the papers, the cursed, legal papers, were sent to the Saint Denis City Government. And Dutch Van der Linde, that fiend, he acquired the legal right to use Guarma! That, Mr. Cornwall, is why I am here." Lemieux leaned back, a look of profound exasperation on his face, shaking his head slowly.

Speaking of which, Lemieux was a man filled to the brim with bile. Those high-and-mighty families in Saint Denis, they'd schemed and plotted like a nest of vipers, each one with an ulterior motive festering in their guts. They'd spun their webs, concocted their tricks, all to dangle Dutch Van der Linde like bait, hoping to provoke him into a fight with Bronte, and then, like hungry buzzards, pick the bones of both. But before the words were even out of their mouths, before the ink on their conspiracy had dried, Dutch Van der Linde, that cunning devil, had already forged an alliance with the Morgan Family! This damned turn of events had knocked the wind right out of their sails before they'd even left port.

Mr. Lemieux had to admit it, his teeth grinding: they'd misjudged Dutch Van der Linde, underestimated that dirty desperado. This scoundrel, this outlaw, still had more tricks up his sleeve than a card shark in a backroom saloon. Whether it was swindling a fortune or navigating the slimy waters of city politics, Dutch Van der Linde consistently served up a heaping plate of surprises.

"Oh, shit!" Mr. Cornwall exploded, his face turning a purplish shade of fury. He smashed the cigar he held in his hand onto the ground, grinding it under his heel with a vicious twist of his foot. "The United States Federal Government is nothing but a sniveling, lily-livered pack of cowards! Van der Linde! A damned desperado! A wanted man! How, in God's name, can he legitimately appear on a United States Government document! Damn it all! Have they forgotten the bloodbath in Blackwater Town already? Has that terrifying incident vanished from their feeble minds like smoke in a strong wind?"

(Yes Lemieux, who in their right mind would sign a document for Dutch? WHO?)

Sparks flew from the crushed cigar, a pathetic, smoldering ember against the unforgiving earth. A damn shame Arthur wasn't around; he'd have snatched it up, taken a couple of greedy drags.

"Apparently, yes, Mr. Cornwall." Lemieux's voice was as cold and hard as flint. He nodded grimly, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap. "The Blackwater massacre, those criminal acts… the Federal Government, they can't use that as a reason to veto the Morgan Family's whim. Not in a federal system, Mr. Cornwall. And that damned cabal of upper-crust elitists, they couldn't care less if Van der Linde's got a bounty on his head!"

Lemieux's words, a fresh dose of venom, only served to stoke Mr. Cornwall's already blazing rage. He roared, his curses aimed squarely at Dutch Van der Linde and the spineless United States Government. "Damn the United States Government! Damn Van der Linde! Damn it all! I'm going to make them understand what a federal system truly means!" He leaned forward, eyes bulging, hands gripping the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"Hahaha," Mr. Fusal chimed in, a low, condescending chuckle bubbling up from his chest. He waved a dismissive hand at Cornwall, then picked up a bottle of expensive red wine from the table with an almost theatrical grace. "Don't you fret, Mr. Cornwall. So what if Van der Linde has the legal right to use Guarma? You seem to forget, I've got five hundred soldiers dug in on that island! I assure you, if that ragtag Van der Linde Gang dares set foot on Guarma, my soldiers will nab 'em quicker than a wink and toss 'em into the sea to feed the sharks!"

He even poured a generous glass for himself, then for Mr. Cornwall, and finally, for a grim-faced Mr. Lemieux. He raised his glass, a smirk playing on his lips. "Cheers, gentlemen! This ten-dollar-a-glass red wine… a rare vintage, indeed. I've been fortunate enough to savor its delights at Mr. Cornwall's esteemed establishment recently!"

Mr. Fusal, supremely unperturbed, didn't give a solitary damn about the Van der Linde Gang. In fact, he found the sputtering rage of the two men before him quite amusing. It was like watching a pair of eunuchs fret more than the emperor himself; he, the true owner of Guarma, wasn't even breaking a sweat, so what, in blazes, were these two fools so anxious about?

"Hahaha! If Van der Linde's got the backbone to fight his way onto Guarma, to defeat my five hundred seasoned soldiers, then by all means, let him have the damned island!" Fusal threw his head back, a hearty, booming laugh filling the air. He spread his arms wide, a gesture of mock generosity. "But clearly, that's as likely as a snowball in hell. My soldiers, Mr. Cornwall, are not those bumbling Pinkerton Detectives or those paper-pushing Federal Police! I guarantee you, the moment the Van der Linde Gang dares to step foot on Guarma, my men will turn them all into sieves!"

Listening to Fusal's confident bluster, Mr. Cornwall felt the heat draining from his face, replaced by a cold calm. A faint smile, thin as a razor's edge, returned to his lips. He nodded slowly, a calculating gleam in his eye.

"Yes, Mr. Fusal's army is indeed a formidable force. What right does a mere desperado have to contend with a regular army? It's all this cursed United States Government's fault, making me lose my composure like some common street urchin. Oh, come on, gentlemen, let us have a drink!"

Mr. Cornwall rose from his chair, a figure of imposing authority. He raised his glass, clinking it against the other two with a sharp, resonant sound. He looked each man in the eye, a shared understanding passing between them.

After taking a delicate sip of the red wine, the smile on his face finally hardened, chilling to an icy cruelty.

"Dutch Van der Linde," he began, his voice low and menacing, each word a hammer blow, "a common desperado, yet he dares to meddle in my business? This, gentlemen, is unforgivable! Perhaps the Federal Government dares not disobey him, out of some misguided deference to the Morgan Family. But in this West, the man whose word carries the most weight, the man whose voice thunders loudest, has never been the United States Federal Government, nor some pampered Wall Street super-family. It is I, Leviticus Cornwall!" He thumped his chest with a clenched fist, his eyes blazing. "And I just stated, I want Dutch Van der Linde to know, to feel in his very bones, what a federal system country truly means!"

"So, Mr. Lemieux," Cornwall's gaze, sharp as a hawk's, impaled Lemieux, "I think a notorious wanted man, a desperado, a villain who ought to be swinging from the gallows, should not openly parade himself in Lemoyne, should he? I hear he's even had the gall to open a clothing store in Saint Denis! Damn it all, the man is simply audacious! And the New Hanover State Government, those feckless imbeciles, they're utterly clueless about the rot festering within their own borders, allowing such a heinous bandit to flaunt himself within New Hanover, even opening a so-called clothing factory! Damn it, I pay the New Hanover State Government ten thousand dollars a year, not for them to repay me with this kind of insolence! I think those New Hanover Senators had best prepare a very reasonable explanation for me!"

Mr. Cornwall's gaze was like a winter storm, chilling to the bone. Under that intense stare, Mr. Lemieux immediately nodded, practically bowing. Lemieux bobbed his head vigorously, a nervous smile plastered on his face.

"Of course, Mr. Cornwall, of course! The Lemoyne State Government has always been a beacon of fairness and justice, upholding the law with righteous zeal. For such a heinous desperado, we have decided, without hesitation, to immediately confiscate all his ill-gotten gains, arrest every last one of his nefarious members, and hang all these damned fellows high on the gallows! However…" Lemieux hesitated, a tremor in his voice, his eyes darting nervously. "…Signor Bronte of Saint Denis, it appears, has some clandestine dealings with the Van der Linde Gang. Furthermore, the combat effectiveness of the Van der Linde Gang's members… it is, indeed, extraordinarily high, which poses a considerable threat to us…"

Mr. Lemieux finally, and painfully, laid bare his true purpose. That's right, he'd come begging for support. Since the nuanced plan to play Dutch against Bronte had gone belly-up, he would simply ask Cornwall to send in the cavalry.

As expected, hearing Mr. Lemieux's pitiful dilemma, Mr. Cornwall's face snapped cold. He waved a dismissive hand, as if swatting a fly. He made a sharp, dismissive flick of his wrist. "Alright, Mr. Lemieux, I understand your meaning. I know precisely what's rattling around in that head of yours. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Dutch Van der Linde has crossed my bottom line! Next, I shall unleash the Pinkerton Detectives upon him, a full-blown encirclement! I want Dutch Van der Linde to perish in the wilderness like a mangy, wild dog! And you, Mr. Lemieux, those more than one thousand soldiers in Lemoyne are not to be trifled with. As for mobilizing their resources, rest assured, I shall foot the bill for you!"

"Hahaha, of course, of course, Mr. Cornwall, of course!" Mr. Lemieux burst into a torrent of laughter, relief washing over him like a cool river. He rubbed his hands together, his face alight with greedy satisfaction.

This was precisely the effect he'd been after. Lemoyne wasn't solely under the thumb of his family, the Lemieuxs. His family alone couldn't simply wave a magic wand and conjure the army. But with Mr. Cornwall's iron-clad backing, and a reason as solid as granite, the other prominent families would have no choice but to swallow this operation, bitter as it might be. And beyond that, the Pinkerton Detective agency, an even larger, more ruthless force, would be unleashed! This way, he could use the army to sweep away the Van der Linde Gang, and then, with the Pinkertons, clean out Bronte's pesky mafia!

"I sincerely hope you don't disappoint me, Mr. Lemieux." Cornwall's eyes narrowed, a silent threat.

"As for you, Mr. Fusal," He turned his chilling gaze to Fusal, "I must journey to the Indian reservation during this time to oversee the oil operations. So, I shall entrust you with the singular honor of taking charge and orchestrating the complete encirclement of the Van der Linde Gang! Tell Milton, tell him that this time, I shall grant them twice the reward of their last pitiful attempt. I want them to completely encircle and utterly eliminate the Van der Linde Gang! I want every living soul in this West to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that my words, and mine alone, carry the most weight!"

Mr. Cornwall was a simmering volcano of rage, and from the mine behind them, the sounds of brutal beatings hadn't ceased. In fact, they seemed to have swelled in volume, a sickening drumbeat to his fury. This grim symphony painted the eyes of the surrounding miners red with despair and unspoken fury, forcing them to recall the whispered news from the trade caravan about the distant hope that was Valentine.