Flustered

Mr. Cornwall, Mr. Lemieux, and even Mr. Fusal, all three of them were stuck deeper in the past than a wagon wheel in a mudhole. They simply couldn't drag their minds out of the dark ages. It was plain as day, this was all thanks to the cursed lack of them infernal mobile phones in this era.

Damn! If a man could just tap his finger and send word, wouldn't these high-falutin' gentlemen have gotten the news quicker? Wouldn't they have had time to strap on their thinking caps and prepare? Instead, they stood there, flat-footed, like a flock of geese in a hailstorm. What a monstrous, gut-wrenching gap in their grand schemes!

And just as crippled by the snail's pace of information was Miss Camille, straight from the polished streets of Wall Street, America.

At this very moment, outside Saint Denis, a city of false promises and real dangers.

"Mr. Brown," Miss Camille declared, her voice a clipped, sharp instrument, "that swampy, undulating terrain you spoke of… it's genuinely astonishing. I scarcely believed I'd clap eyes on it the moment we cleared Saint Denis's gates. Nature, truly, is a breathtaking brute."

A line of carriages, stretched out like a slow-moving serpent, creaked its way out of Saint Denis. Each turn of the wheel carried them deeper into what passed for the wild, untamed American West – though, truth be told, this was still merely the porch. The real, teeth-gnashing West lay further out, where the Howling Wolf Gang ran wild, a place as lawless and untamed as Guarma Island itself.

Miss Camille sat stiffly in her carriage, her gaze nailed to two humble mounds of earth in the distance. To be honest, a shiver, cold as mountain spring water, traced its way down her spine. The American West, a savage, untamed beast, was a truth whispered on every American's tongue. It was a haven for every gang of cutthroats and scoundrels under the sun, and venturing out, particularly far, was as good as drawing a target on your own back. So, Miss Camille found herself wrestling with a knot of raw nerves.

Mr. Brown, bless his blustering heart, had sworn up and down there wasn't a lick of danger here. But words were wind, and she hadn't seen it with her own eyes, hadn't felt the grit of it under her own boots. Naturally, she trusted him about as far as she could throw a bull.

So, Mr. Brown, with the prudence of a man who values his neck, hired thirty gunmen to ride shotgun for Miss Camille. This turned the whole convoy into a ludicrous parade, longer than a preacher's sermon, forced to snake and stretch just to leave enough room for other poor souls to pass.

In truth, this method of travel was a bitter pill for Miss Camille to swallow. But Mr. Brown's tales of a factory, a place called Shady Belle under Mr. Van der Linde's crooked thumb, and the conditions of trade on the wild roads… well, it had convinced her. She needed to see this spectacle for herself, to gauge Mr. Van der Linde's true burgeoning empire. And perhaps, just perhaps, it would open her eyes to a new direction for her family's fortunes, a new frontier to conquer.

However, the convoy had barely cleared the city limits when Miss Camille's brow furrowed, a thundercloud gathering on her elegant face.

"Stop!" Her voice rang out, sharp as a rifle crack. The entire procession, with a synchronized groan of wood and leather, ground to an immediate halt.

Mr. Brown, who had been riding cautiously at the head, galloped back, his face a picture of respectful fluster, his hat almost tumbling off. He asked, "Is something amiss, Miss Camille?"

With a faint creak of the carriage door, Miss Camille stood. She rose straight up on the carriage, her head swiveling, her gaze sweeping from the front to the very tail of the convoy. Her eyes darted back and forth. After a long, silent moment, she jabbed a finger towards the dusty path on the other side of the convoy, the path reserved for ordinary folk. She asked, her voice laced with confusion, "Why in tarnation are there so many trade convoys outside Saint Denis? This place is a hotbed of gangs; ain't these people scared of getting themselves robbed blind?"

"Oh, that." Mr. Brown's shoulders sagged with a relieved sigh. He ran a hand over his sweating brow. "I know a bit about that, Miss Camille. Word has it, Mr. Van der Linde has gone and cleared out every last gang in New Hanover, and maybe even those in Lemoyne. As for it being completely safe, well, the ink ain't dry on that claim yet. But it's true, an uncommon number of trade convoys have been rolling into Saint Denis from all corners lately. More folks than you can shake a stick at have been knocking on our bank's door, asking for loans, itching to dive into trade."

Mr. Brown knew this tidbit because Mr. Van der Linde himself had boasted of it.

Hearing Mr. Brown's explanation, Miss Camille's eyebrows arched, a subtle, dangerous curve. She turned, her eyes fixing on Mr. Brown's fawning expression, and her face, slowly, steadily, turned to stone.

"Is that so, Mr. Brown?" She spat the words, each one a polished stone. "Then pray tell, why did your letters, why did your very words, fail to underscore that Mr. Van der Linde commands such immense power? Clearing out gang members from two whole states? That's two vast territories. Even if I never knew the precise count or the breed of ruffians involved, we're talking a thousand people, at the very least, wouldn't you agree? Which means, Mr. Van der Linde has, in a mere six months, swelled his ranks to a thousand strong, or more, right under your very nose, and you, sir, knew nothing of it! Is this your vaunted work ethic? Is this the 'improved attitude' you constantly rattle on about?"

Miss Camille's words, one after another, plunged into Mr. Brown's chest like poisoned steel needles. He broke out in a cold sweat, his body swaying, his knees threatening to buckle. Damn! What in blazes had he been doing before? Why had he been such a blithering idiot? Mr. Brown remained frozen, caught between fear and sheer panic, while Miss Camille, a woman of decisive action, was already moving.

"Hey, gentlemen, a moment of your time, if you please!" Miss Camille stepped down from her carriage, waving a delicate hand towards the passing merchant wagons on the dusty road. Her gaze, sweeping over the passing conveyances, unknowingly furrowed once more.

These passing convoys seemed… different. Unsettlingly so. The men driving them showed not a flicker of fear upon seeing her large, armed escort, which struck her as deeply abnormal. Her convoy was enormous, bristling with thirty armed gunmen, yet these ordinary folk seemed as calm as pond water. Why?

As Miss Camille waved, the most recently passed carriage groaned to a slow halt. Then, two men on the carriage, a father and his strapping son, looked at Miss Camille. The older man slapped his son's shoulder, a sharp, encouraging sound, then spoke.

"Howdy, Miss, something wrong?"

Following his father's lead, the younger man leapt from the carriage and immediately flopped onto the ground, doing something utterly perplexing. His actions made Miss Camille frown deeply, a furrow so profound it threatened to split her brow.

Damn! Was this some bizarre, backwoods performance art? Why had his son just sprawled himself on the dirt?

"Oh, Sir, with all due respect," Miss Camille began, her voice a mix of confusion and politeness, "is this young man of yours afflicted with some malady? Why is he…"

"Alright, Miss," the father interrupted, his tone gruff, clearly a man whose patience had run thin. "What is it you're actually after? If it ain't important, don't go wasting our time; we still gotta hotfoot it back to Rhodes tonight!" They were, indeed, busy as bees in a honey factory, needing to beat the closing bell at the Shady Belle factory.

"Alright, Sir, alright." Miss Camille waved her hands repeatedly, a flurry of hurried motions. This proud woman, known for her imperious demeanor, showed not a speck of arrogance now. Instead, she actively humbled herself, just a touch. "I merely wished to inquire… do you happen to know a Mr. Van der Linde?"

At the mention of Mr. Van der Linde's name, the man's entire demeanor snapped. His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, and in a flash, quicker than a blink, he yanked a rifle from behind his carriage. He bellowed, his voice laced with menace, "Damn, Miss, what in blazes do you mean by that? What's wrong with Mr. Van der Linde? If you're here to cause trouble for him, then I reckon you've picked the wrong fight, by God! Damn, I guarantee you won't leave this spot alive today!"

"Oh, shit! Please, put down your weapon, Sir! I mean no harm! Hey, gentlemen!" Miss Camille shouted, turning to her own bewildered gunmen. "Put your weapons down too! My dear Sir, I merely wanted to ask about Mr. Van der Linde before I collaborate with him! I simply want to collaborate with Mr. Van der Linde!"

Miss Camille frantically tried to calm her own men, who now had their guns leveled, and to quell the murderous glint in the merchant's eyes. Damn! Did Mr. Dutch Van der Linde truly command such fierce loyalty? She had merely asked a question, and this old man had dared to pull a rifle on her in front of thirty armed guards. Damn! She could swear to God that old man had, just a moment ago, been willing to shoot her down, even if it meant facing his own damn!

Miss Camille stood there, utterly stunned, as if struck by a bolt of lightning. She keenly sensed, a cold dread creeping into her soul, that her assessment of Mr. Van der Linde was still profoundly, dangerously flawed. Damn! His popularity alone already filled her with a chilling sense of apprehension!