Guns

No one knew that in an era where repeating rifles were considered top-tier equipment, the very pinnacle of conventional military might, some audacious minds were already secretly plotting far beyond such limitations. They were working in the shadows, meticulously planning to research and develop groundbreaking technologies like airplanes and Tanks, machines that would redefine warfare.

They had even established a dedicated, clandestine weapon research studio for this ambitious purpose, a hub of innovation hidden from the world's prying eyes. They were actively recruiting brilliant talents from various specialized fields, luring them in with the irresistible promise of extremely generous benefits, building a formidable team of unseen geniuses, a silent revolution.

If the current President of the United States, stuck in his distant, powerful office, knew about these radical, revolutionary activities, this audacious subversion of the status quo, he probably wouldn't be able to sleep tonight, his rest utterly shattered by the sheer audacity and foresight of it all.

But for now, blissfully ignorant of the nascent threats brewing in the shadows, they didn't know.

As the sky completely brightened, washing away the last vestiges of the stormy night, a refreshed Saint Denis was stirring to life, now filled with much more hustle and bustle than usual, a new kind of energy humming in the morning air, a palpable sense of change.

"Beep, beep, beep!!" Accompanied by the deep, resonant sound of an oil tanker's whistle, its mournful cry cutting through the morning air, a massive vessel, its hull gleaming wetly, slowly, majestically sailed into Saint Denis Port. Its arrival marked a new rhythm for the city's commerce.

Saint Denis Port was now completely transformed from its previous state, almost unrecognizable to those who knew it. The most striking new features were the two formidable bunkers, still under construction, rising like concrete giants on both sides of the port entrance, their unfinished forms a testament to the new power. Maxim guns, their dark barrels glinting, were already set up on these fortifications, their menacing presence a silent, deadly warning. In addition, there were always Van der Linde gunmen, their new uniforms crisp, patrolling diligently inside the port, moving with a purposeful stride to maintain security and strictly prohibit any suspicious individuals from leaving the city.

At the same time, the port itself was undergoing a massive expansion, its docks being lengthened and reinforced, preparing for the future mooring of imposing warships, a vision of naval power. The site for the warship shipyard, a colossal undertaking to be built based on the new Saint Denis Government's lavish financial expenditure, had also been meticulously determined. Workers, already imbued with a new sense of purpose, had even begun transporting goods and materials, though the chosen location was a bit far from Saint Denis Port, nestled discreetly between Saint Denis and Van Horn Trading Post, thus remaining unseen from the bustling port itself.

"Oh, Mr. Morgan, Mr. Callander, it's truly hard for you to come and see us off this time, gentlemen," Signor Bronte's voice, a bizarre mix of fawning humility and theatrical grandeur, filled the air. He clicked his heels together sharply, snapping his legs to attention with an almost military precision, and his hand, almost involuntarily, snapped upwards in a crisp salute, a movement he had clearly practiced. "Rest assured, these people will definitely be obedient with me! I will uphold the glory of our Van der Linde! West Sea!" He concluded with a flourish, his hand waving expansively, almost melodramatically, towards the vast, open sea, envisioning his new realm of influence.

He was wearing a strange, garish clown costume, its bright colors absurd in the morning light, but despite its ridiculousness, he felt exceptionally proud, his chest puffed out slightly, a happy, almost manic smile radiating on his face. He seemed to genuinely revel in his new, albeit bizarre, role.

Mr. Martelli, standing stiffly beside him, was dressed similarly in the matching clown pajamas, their bright hues clashing with the grimness of the port, but he appeared far more reserved, his usual bravado utterly extinguished. His face was pale, his eyes darting nervously, betraying a deep unease.

Because he clearly, painfully knew that the two men standing so casually before him, Arthur and Mac, were ruthless individuals who had almost beaten him to death on the spot just hours ago! The memory was fresh and chilling, a cold fear still gnawing at his gut.

After the Saint Denis coup night, Signor Bronte, not being an industrial capitalist, an assemblyman, or possessing any substantial, land-based power, had, fortunately, received the benevolent Governor Van der Linde's unexpected pardon. A cruel twist of fate, perhaps, but a pardon nonetheless.

And he, along with his numerous subordinates, the countless Saint Denis land ruffians and petty criminals he once commanded, were all rounded up, arrested, and prepared to be transported to Governor Van der Linde's remote mine for forced labor, a life of endless toil, their past lives utterly stripped away.

As for the identity of Signor Bronte and his people as Italian Mafia members? Sh*t! The thought was dismissed with utter contempt. Even if the actual big boss of the Italian Mafia headquarters came in person now, roaring with rage, he would have to work diligently in the mine, his back breaking, under the constant urging of a whip! Their former power meant nothing here, utterly meaningless.

As for Signor Bronte himself, because he had performed so exceptionally well that night, showing commendable attitudes of admitting his mistakes and profound repentance, and also due to his advanced age and apparent frailty, making him truly unable to work as a miner, Governor Van der Linde had appointed him as the benevolent head of the reform camp. In this new role, he was responsible for managing the wretched workers transported to the mine for their forced 'reform.' This was so that these damned gang members, desperate outlaws, and local ruffians could truly turn over a new leaf and work hard, diligently, under the earnest, persuasive teachings of Signor Bronte.

Of course, his authority was only to supervise the mine workers, strictly speaking, he was merely the highest-ranking prisoner among the prisoners in the vast, open-air prison, not a true prison guard responsible for guarding. He was a prisoner in a costume, overseeing other prisoners.

In other words, Signor Bronte would spend the rest of his life, until his dying breath, toiling in the mine, his golden cage replaced by a grimy, dusty one.

To express his high expectations for Signor Bronte, and perhaps to further underscore his dominance, Governor Van der Linde even sent Arthur and Mac, now two powerful Saint Denis Government assemblymen, to personally bid him farewell, a theatrical gesture of ultimate power and chilling irony.

Looking at Signor Bronte's utterly comical appearance, his absurd clown suit, Arthur sighed, a subtle shake of his head. He then reached out and placed a heavy, meaningful hand on Signor Bronte's shoulder, a gesture of both warning and grim acceptance.

"Oh! Signor Bronte," Arthur began, his voice low, tinged with a weary gravity, "well, I don't know why Dutch didn't kill you outright, but I hope you remember that this is your only chance to survive, your singular shot at life. And I sincerely hope you don't harbor any other foolish thoughts, any ideas of defiance or escape." His gaze was stern, unwavering, a silent warning.

"Oh no! Mr. Morgan, dear Mr. Morgan," Bronte interrupted, his voice a torrent of eloquent self-defense, his hands clasped together, almost wringing them, his face contorted in a mask of profound sincerity. "How could I possibly have any other thoughts? To be honest, Mr. Morgan, I only seemed glorious in my position as the underground leader of Saint Denis, a king in shadows, but in reality, I was constantly on edge, perpetually on guard. I couldn't even sleep well at night, my rest haunted by anxieties, oh, this kind of anxious, ceaseless life has made me utterly weary, broken me! And now that Mr. Van der Linde has arrived, now that he has taken control, I no longer have to live this damned, disgusting, fear-ridden life! This is truly my greatest joy, my liberation! How could I have any other ideas? Dear Mr. Morgan!" He finished with an overly dramatic flourish, a deep bow.

Bronte eloquently defended himself, his face full of firm resolve and a loyal attitude, so exaggerated it bordered on caricature. Of course, perhaps there was truly a hint or two of such a thought in his heart, a tiny spark of genuine relief, but probably not much, after all, even in defeat, he still possessed his own twisted pride within.

"Alright, Signor Bronte, I hope you remember what you said!" Arthur interjected, his voice firm, giving Bronte a sharp, warning look, his eyes narrowing slightly. But their grim conversation was abruptly interrupted by Mac, who was growing impatient.

"Come on! Arthur, what are you worrying about, man!" Mac barked, waving a dismissive hand, his voice laced with impatience. He shifted his weight, glancing impatiently at the ships in the port. "I don't think he can do anything damned under the bunkers that cover the entire New Hanover, not under Dutch's eye, and I don't think Signor Bronte is that kind of fool to try!" Mac then looked pointedly at the massive oil tanker that had just arrived at the port, his attention already elsewhere.

In reality, their coming to see off Signor Bronte was just a convenient side trip, a necessary formality; their main, pressing purpose was to wait for Hosea and John here, their real mission.

And at this moment, Hosea's familiar voice, warm and booming, rang out from the deck of the newly arrived ship in the port.

"Arthur, Arthur, come here, son!" Hosea called out, waving an arm, his face wreathed in a welcoming smile. "Our goods have arrived, you can go and open up the market!" His words were a command and an invitation.

With Hosea's shouts echoing across the water, Signor Bronte, Arthur, and Mac also quickly turned their heads to look, their gazes drawn to the ship.

They saw teams of diligent workers, moving with practiced efficiency, pulling out wagon after wagon from the belly of the ship, their forms silhouetted against the bright morning sky.

The wagons were loaded to the brim with crates, filling the entire interior of the wagons, their contents a mystery beneath the tarps. Upon closer inspection, there were more than a dozen wagons alone, a vast quantity of cargo.

"Oh, sh*t! Is all of this cargo, Hosea?!" Arthur exclaimed, his eyes widening in surprise at the sheer volume of goods. He and Mac, with a collective, almost involuntary movement, shook off Signor Bronte, leaving him surrounded and guarded by a hundred grim-faced gunmen and the more than two hundred seriously wicked ruffians who had been arrested in Saint Denis, now their fellow prisoners. They strode quickly towards Hosea, their focus shifting entirely to the business at hand.

Hosea had come for three main reasons this time: first, and perhaps most importantly, to transport this enormous batch of firearms produced by the Hope Ranch arms factory, their new arsenal; second, to collect the last batch of crucial equipment to be transported to Guarma, finalizing their colonial venture; and third, conveniently, to deliver Signor Bronte and his group of new laborers to Van Horn Trading Post for their compelled work in the mine, a grim end to his reign.

"Hey, Arthur, Mac." John Marston, following closely behind Hosea, a wide, slightly goofy grin on his face, raised a hand in a casual greeting to Arthur and Mac.

Little Ma (Xiao Ma Ge), as he was affectionately known, had completely let himself go during this period without Dutch's constant supervision. He hadn't bothered to shave his beard or cut his wild hair, looking like a veritable wild man, his appearance a stark contrast to the newly polished Saint Denis. He stood beside Hosea, still grinning foolishly, and enthusiastically waved at Arthur and Mac, clearly delighted to see them.

"Oh, sh*t, Marston, even the wild boars running around in the Heartland Oil Fields don't have sideburns as thick as yours!" Arthur retorted, his gaze sweeping over John's unkempt appearance, a mock look of disgust on his face. He shook his head, a wry grin playing on his lips. "Why can't you damned thing ever take care of yourself? You look like you wrestled a badger and lost!"

As Arthur's words came out, casual and teasing, the wide, silly smile on John's face stiffened slightly, a flicker of irritation in his eyes.

"Sh*t! Morgan, I finally come back once, and you always focus on things that don't need attention!" John retorted, his voice tinged with exasperation, pulling his hand back from the wave. His silly grin was gone, replaced by a sullen pout, and his good mood was instantly ruined, deflating like a pricked balloon.

"Then what should I focus on, Marston? On whether you drowned on Guarma, perhaps?" Arthur countered, his eyebrows raised in feigned innocence, a playful smirk on his face, pushing John's buttons.

"Oh, sh*t! I've learned to swim!" John roared, his face reddening, always easily angered by Arthur's persistent teasing. He threw his hands up in exasperation.

"Hahaha, alright, Arthur, don't talk about John anymore, he's been busy lately and hasn't had time to manage his personal hygiene." Hosea stepped forward, his eyes twinkling, coming out to be a peacemaker, laying a hand on John's shoulder. But after only a couple of sentences, he couldn't resist a hearty laugh, a deep, booming sound, and subtly sold John out with his next comment: "But I do think you're right, I've been smelling some strange odors these past few days, hahaha…" He patted John's shoulder with mock sympathy.

Looking at the indignant, flustered expression on John's face, Hosea smiled warmly and patted his shoulder again, then stepped down gracefully from the ship onto the dock.

He looked around, his gaze sweeping over the scene. He saw the new police officers in the Saint Denis Port, constantly patrolling in crisp, new uniforms expertly styled after the Van der Linde clothing factory, their movements precise and disciplined. He noted the two bunkers and the gleam of machine guns still under construction around them, rising with impressive speed. He genuinely exclaimed, a note of profound awe in his voice.

"Oh, Arthur," Hosea said, his voice soft with wonder, his eyes wide as he took in the transformed port. He shook his head slowly, a look of almost disbelief on his face. "It's hard to imagine that we have developed to such an extent now! Dutch, Dutch, he truly surprises me! He's a marvel!" Hosea chuckled, a sound of profound amazement. "Whoa, I even feel like this is a dream right now; just half a year ago, we were a group of wanted fugitives, constantly running, constantly hiding, and now, look around, children, in just half a year, we have entered the civilized capital of the West, Saint Denis, and taken it over!"

"Damn it," Hosea concluded, a thoughtful, almost troubled expression settling on his face, "I feel like my old friend is becoming more and more inscrutable, more and more… powerful. It's almost frightening."

Half a year. This time span was impossibly short, so short that even he, a seasoned old man who had seen much, found it a bit hard to fully accept, to truly comprehend the magnitude of their transformation. Even though all of this had developed step by painstaking step, right under his very nose, the speed of it was dizzying.