Heya

"Click!" The sharp metallic sound of a door opening cut through the air, interrupting Dutch midsentence as he leaned forward, engrossed in conversation with Mr. Marko.

The door swung wider, and Mac and Charles sauntered out of the room, looking somewhat disheveled, as if they'd just rolled out of bed.

"Hey, Dutch, Arthur," Mac bellowed, his voice still a little rough from sleep, but quickly gaining a boisterous edge as his eyes lit upon Mr. Marko. "And Mr. Marko, oh, Marko, my favorite guy!" He strode forward, extending a hand to pat Marko on the back, a wide, almost manic grin plastered across his face. "You just don't know how good the guns you've made recently are! Damn it, I think with this gun, Dutch wouldn't have been shot back in Blackwater Town, we definitely could have killed all the police and Pinkerton Detectives in Blackwater Town!" He finished with an enthusiastic nod, his eyes gleaming with a mix of awe and a slightly disturbing fanaticism.

Even though Mac had just woken up, he was still clutching his Marko semi-automatic rifle, holding it almost protectively against his chest. This damn guy was completely obsessed with Mr. Marko because of this gun, flattering him endlessly every day, even sleeping with his gun at night. Dutch was afraid he would accidentally shoot himself one night.

"Sh*t, Mac," Dutch growled, his brow furrowing as he fixed his gaze on the rifle in Mac's hand, a visible vein throbbing in his temple. He gestured sharply with an open palm. "How many times have I told you, don't sleep with your gun, just put it on the bedside table, you damn thing, do you want to misfire and go see God?" Dutch reprimanded him, his voice laced with exasperation.

None of these damn guys could give him a moment's peace! He ran a hand over his face, a weary sigh escaping his lips.

"Come on! Mr. Callander, give me the gun, damn it, it's strictly forbidden to play with guns in the camp!" Susan, who had just entered with a tray laden with breakfast, marched forward with purpose. Without hesitation, she stepped up to Mac, a no-nonsense expression on her face, and delivered a sharp, echoing slap to his cheek. Mac winced, his hand instinctively flying to cover the stinging spot. She then snatched the rifle from his stunned grip with surprising agility and turned on her heel, striding out the door.

Playing with guns was not allowed in the camp because of the fear of accidental discharge hurting everyone. So Mac's behavior was indeed a mistake.

"I've hung your gun on your saddle, Mac." Susan's voice, though slightly muffled by the distance, carried clearly from outside the room. Mac pouted, still covering half of his slapped face, and slumped dramatically onto the sofa next to Arthur, letting out a frustrated groan.

"Well, Callander," Arthur began, a faint, teasing smirk playing on his lips as he leaned back, crossing his arms. He reached out and patted Mac's shoulder with a sympathetic, yet subtly mocking, gesture. "I think it's time for you to say goodbye to your rifle girl. It seems you'll have to use your hands from now on; using a gun barrel is just not safe." His tone was intentionally a bit strange, designed to needle Mac.

"Sh*t, Arthur!" Mac exploded, sitting upright with a jolt, his eyes narrowing in irritation. He jabbed a finger in Arthur's direction. "I'm not that idiot Bill who likes gun oil!" How could Mac not know Arthur was mocking him? He immediately responded angrily, his face flushing.

"Right, right, you don't like gun oil, but you like gun barrels, Mac," Arthur drawled, leaning forward slightly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. He shook his head slowly, a mock look of wonder on his face. "Oh, my goodness, Pearson always said you were a heartless warrior, and now it seems he wasn't bragging; I can't believe you carry a bullet with you every day! That's truly heartless!" (Only a bullet can fit into a gun barrel) Arthur, without tuberculosis, was practically invincible in combat; his foul mouth was astonishing, and he was either mocking or sarcastically mocking every day.

If there were an honor system now, his honor would definitely be negative.

"Enough! You two, shut up!" Dutch's voice boomed, cutting through their bickering. He slammed his hand lightly on the table, a clear signal for quiet.

Mutual quarreling was normal in the gang; if they ever stopped, that's when something was truly wrong, like in chapter six of the game, when Beaver Hollow was completely silent, without the back-and-forth bickering of the first two chapters, but this meant that the contradictions between them had become deeply rooted.

Dutch's gaze swept over Mac and Charles, who had just walked out of the room, his expression transitioning from irritation to a solemn intensity. He clasped his hands together, resting them on the table before him. "Alright, gentlemen, it's time to talk about serious matters!"

He leaned forward, his eyes piercing, capturing the attention of everyone in the room. "Guarma has been occupied by us, but this is just the beginning, gentlemen, this is just the beginning!" He punctuated his words with a slow, deliberate sweep of his hand, indicating the grand scope of his vision.

"Contending for Guarma will inevitably bring us into Mr. Cornwall's sight, because he has shares in the sugar cane business there, and it can even be said that Mr. Fusal works for him! So seizing Guarma directly puts Mr. Cornwall against us!" Dutch's voice dropped slightly, taking on a more conspiratorial tone, his eyes darting from face to face.

"I believe Mr. Cornwall, such a vengeful and petty capitalist, cannot swallow this insult," he continued, his voice hardening, a glint of steel in his eyes. He pounded a fist lightly on the table. "And I also believe the major families of Saint Denis, especially the Lemieux Family, will not miss this opportunity to curry favor with Mr. Cornwall and completely eliminate us. Therefore, I now have reason to suspect that Mr. Cornwall and several major families in Saint Denis may have united and are planning to wipe us out in one fell swoop!" He finished, leaning back in his chair, a grim determination etched on his face.

Dutch's speculation was not groundless, because Mr. Henry Lemieux wanted him to solve the Indian problem precisely to curry favor with Mr. Cornwall, and besides, the Van der Linde Gang's disobedience and the Veteran Club's problem had become thorns in their side during this period, so there was no need to think; they would definitely unite and take the opportunity to solve both problems.

Listening to Dutch's narration, Arthur and Mac's expressions also became serious. Arthur even felt a bit emotional, his jaw tightening slightly.

Oh, sh*t, Dutch is going to start predicting again! I remember the last prediction was when we fought fifty Lemoyne Raiders in Saint Denis.

Arthur became more and more serious; he felt that Dutch's predictions were as magical as if he had read a script. This kind of prediction, mixed with insight into human nature and thoughts, always gave him a sense of glimpsing opportunities. He unconsciously leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed intently on Dutch.

Arthur liked this feeling; it made him feel incredibly secure.

Dutch, meanwhile, solemnly extended his index finger, pointing it into the air as if emphasizing an invisible point, gesturing with each phrase as he spoke: "So, Arthur, Mac, I'm sure they're going to act against us soon, boys!" He lowered his hand, his gaze sweeping over them, full of gravity.

"Mr. Cornwall is an oil tycoon, a sugar merchant, a railroad magnate. He is not easy to deal with." Dutch's voice was low, laced with a sense of the immense power they were up against. He slowly shook his head, a subtle frown creasing his brow. "Every one of his assets is accumulated with blood and tears. He used various despicable and shameless means to seize his initial capital, and then grew bigger and bigger. So, facing our action, he will inevitably use his greatest power to target us, thereby annexing our capital and making it his nourishment." He spoke with a controlled intensity, his eyes burning with conviction.

"So I have reason to suspect that he will likely use a three-pronged approach to completely annihilate us!" Dutch declared, holding up three fingers, emphasizing each point as he outlined it.

"First," he began, lowering one finger, his voice becoming more forceful, "he will inevitably use his influence to force the New Hanover state government to acknowledge our crimes, and use the power of money to direct Pinkerton Detectives to encircle and attack us."

"Second," he continued, bringing down a second finger, his hand chopping through the air, "he will inevitably cooperate with the major families in Saint Denis, forcibly confiscating our clothing stores, the factory in Shady Belle, and our influence in Rhodes. He might even use the Saint Denis police force to participate in our encirclement!"

"Third," Dutch concluded, his last finger dropping, his hand now forming a tight fist, "he will inevitably use his influence in the military, utilizing the New Hanover state army and the Lemoyne state army to completely surround us!"

He paused, letting his words hang in the air, allowing their weight to settle. "Given our current size and influence, I have reason to believe Mr. Cornwall will simultaneously employ all of the above methods, and perhaps even more low-level tactics such as arson at clothing stores or incursions by various gangs." He paused, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

"And this will undoubtedly cause us immense damage." Dutch's voice was grim, his eyes reflecting the gravity of the situation.

"Therefore," he stated, his voice rising, a new resolve hardening his features, "I have decided that we must anticipate the enemy, take the initiative, and avoid all possible harm!" He leaned forward once more, his gaze intense, directed first at Mac, then at Arthur.

"Mac, Arthur, I want you to start preparing the army now, gather an army of a thousand men, and then follow me to Saint Denis to launch a coup! I want Saint Denis to be under our control overnight!" His words were delivered with a fiery passion, his fist thumping the table with each declaration.

"And Lenny, Sean, boys," Dutch continued, turning his head slightly, as if addressing them directly despite their absence, "I want you to notify all our bunkers; once the army enters our firing range, have them begin fighting. Gentlemen, although the Veteran Club exists, we cannot put all our hopes on the Veteran Club, and if those soldiers truly come, it undoubtedly shows that they believe in and obey the New Hanover state government and the Lemoyne state government more than the Veteran Club and our Van der Linde Gang. We cannot gamble on this outcome, so we can only fight!" He emphasized the last word, his voice ringing with defiance.

"And Charles, my boy," Dutch said, his eyes now finding Charles, a slight nod accompanying his words, "I want you and Flying Eagle to gather a force of three hundred men and head to Annesburg and the Heartland Oil Fields' Cornwall coal tar factory, to completely occupy Annesburg and the coal tar factory! Since we have already fallen out with Mr. Cornwall, we can only offend him to the end. And the coal mine in Annesburg and the coal tar factory in the Heartland Oil Fields are undoubtedly two extremely important strategic resource areas; I want to completely occupy them and make them our wealth!" He gestured expansively, as if already envisioning the spoils of war.

Dutch stood up, his posture tall and commanding, his voice resonating through the room. "Children, I demand that all of you brace yourselves and successfully complete the tasks I have assigned!" He looked at each man in turn, his gaze unwavering, challenging them.

"This is a war, children, this is a war!" His final words were delivered with a sinister, terrifying intensity, his eyes darting across Arthur's and the others' faces, warning them repeatedly, a silent promise of the brutal conflict to come.