Fusal

Mr. Fusal slowly, almost imperceptibly, calmed down from his initial explosive rage. His jaw was still clenched, but the tremors in his arms subsided. His gaze, now cold and utterly devoid of remorse, swept over the corpse of the Spanish soldier lying at his feet. With a grim set to his mouth, he turned on his heel and strode purposefully towards the stairs, his boots thudding heavily on the wooden steps.

"Drag this deserter out and dispose of him!" Mr. Fusal's voice was low, clipped, and incredibly grim, a chilling command that brooked no argument. His face was a mask of calculated ruthlessness.

Mr. Fusal was no fool; it wasn't that he disbelieved his soldier's terrifying words, not entirely. Rather, it was a strategic calculation. He was on the precipice of war with the formidable Van der Linde Gang, and he burned with a desperate need for revenge, for retribution. He simply could not, would not, let this man confirm that the Van der Linde Gang had a thousand soldiers, not to Mr. Cornwall. If that number, that sheer, unthinkable strength, were to be verified, Mr. Cornwall might well decide against continuing to act against the Van der Linde Gang, judging the cost too high.

Fusal had lost everything, or close to it, and he was past the point of being afraid of further loss. Now, if he could just eradicate the Van der Linde Gang, if he could still achieve that, he believed he had a chance, a chance to play the game again. Relying on his past favors and his established status with powerful figures, he could still, perhaps, re-occupy Guarma and resume his lucrative former business, at most incurring some manageable losses. But if Mr. Cornwall, the mighty industrialist, believed the Van der Linde Gang truly had a thousand soldiers and, consequently, dared not act, then he, Fusal, would truly be finished! His empire would collapse.

Guarma was lost, his loyal soldiers were dead, and his wealth wasn't brought back. He would transform from Warlord Fusal, a man of power and influence, directly into Pauper Fusal, a nobody. This was utterly unacceptable to him, a fate worse than death.

So, even if the Van der Linde Gang truly possessed a thousand soldiers, a monstrous, unthinkable army for a gang, he absolutely could not utter the words: the Van der Linde Gang has a thousand soldiers!

For the preservation of his own status, his very identity, he could only sacrifice one subordinate, a necessary casualty. Otherwise, if this unfortunate soul was ever questioned by Mr. Cornwall and confirmed that the Van der Linde Gang had a thousand soldiers, he, Fusal, would truly be unequivocally finished, his life's work in ruins!

Of course, in the deepest recesses of his mind, despite his calculated pragmatism, he still harbored some lingering disbelief. A thousand soldiers? It was too outlandish.

There was simply no way around it; no rational person, no seasoned veteran of the West, could truly believe that a mere desperado, a gang leader, could raise and sustain an army of a thousand men in just half a year! It defied all logic, all known patterns of gang development.

Even the O'Driscoll Gang, a sprawling, vicious network, to this very day, at its absolute peak, numbered no more than two hundred people, and this was already considered the extreme limit of a gang's organic development, because relying solely on sporadic robbery and petty crime simply couldn't support so many mouths.

Signor Bronte of Saint Denis, a city power broker, at his most glorious, only commanded a formidable configuration of over one hundred thirty people, each with a horse, a well-armed, disciplined unit.

Even the largest gang in the West, the notorious Howling Wolf Gang, only managed to raise a force of just over five hundred people, and that astonishing number was only achievable thanks to the immense wealth generated by the lucrative gold mine they possessed.

How, then, could a Van der Linde Gang, which at most was known for opening a couple of clothing stores, possibly recruit and sustain an army of a thousand people, when at most, by all conventional reckoning, they could only ever gather a hundred or two hundred, or perhaps three or four hundred people at a stretch?

Which of the fundamental needs for food, clothing, housing, and transportation for this thousand-person army isn't a monumental, ruinous expense? Even for him, Fusal, a man with considerable resources, an army of five hundred was the absolute maximum he could sustain, and that still heavily relied on generous allocations from the Spanish government to keep them fed and equipped.

The standing army of an entire state like Lemoyne was only around two thousand, a relatively modest force, and the total United States Army, the nation's entire military might, numbered only twenty thousand men.

How could a small, transient gang like yours, Fusal raged internally, possibly raise a force of a thousand? It was preposterous.

Mr. Fusal descended the stairs with a grim expression, his jaw set, his eyes fixed straight ahead. Countless thoughts, a chaotic storm of calculations and furious disbelief, surged within his mind, but all were deeply buried, making them utterly unimaginable to any observer, his face a perfect mask of control.

At the Annesburg ferry, a small, bustling hub of activity, Mr. Milton, a Pinkerton Detective, who had been waiting for what felt like a long time, stepped forward, his posture rigid, followed closely by his partner, Mr. Ross.

These two had recently returned from West Elizabeth, their faces etched with weariness. The situation there had been very bad, extremely tricky. The O'Driscoll Gang, which had been reduced to a mere sixty members, a broken force, had resurged with alarming strength, even continuously committing brazen crimes across West Elizabeth, and had shockingly shown clear signs of targeting the lucrative, well-guarded Blackwater Town itself. To arrange security for Blackwater Town, a crucial Pinkerton concern, Mr. Milton and Mr. Ross were late in returning, their itinerary delayed by the escalating chaos.

"Mr. Fusal, hello." Mr. Milton's voice was crisp, professional, but notably devoid of warmth. He did not extend his hand to shake Fusal's, a deliberate snub, nor was there any hint of a smile on his face; he didn't even wish to waste words on pleasantries.

He looked down on this crude warlord of Guarma, a man whose brutal methods and questionable ethics stood in stark contrast to Milton's own sense of calculated order.

As a high-ranking member of the Pinkerton Detective agency with some power and status, his access to information was naturally very detailed, far beyond what the common man knew. So, he knew exactly what Mr. Fusal had been doing in Guarma, the ruthless exploitation, the illicit dealings.

Compared to Mr. Fusal, who could appear openly in public, flaunting his ill-gotten gains, Milton actually preferred the Van der Linde Gang a bit more, a surprising, almost contradictory sentiment for a lawman.

At the very least, the Van der Linde Gang, despite their criminal activities, never actively bullied the weak, never preyed on the truly helpless. Although Dutch Van der Linde's personal ideology was incredibly naive, even despicable and ridiculous in its utopian grandiosity, those people, surprisingly, truly practiced their ideas, however misguided, with a strange, fierce sincerity.

Damn it, Milton thought, a flicker of genuine bewilderment crossing his face, who could believe that a gang of desperadoes would actually send all the money they robbed to an orphanage? It defied all criminal logic.

When Mr. Milton had first taken over the Van der Linde Gang's case files, he had meticulously studied their records for a long time, poring over every detail. And the more he researched, the more amazed he became by their sheer strangeness, their peculiar brand of outlawry.

This ridiculous gang of desperadoes was completely different from other vicious and disgusting gangs. They robbed the rich to help the poor, a true Robin Hood fantasy. They meticulously used money from their audacious bank robberies to aid the elderly and widows, donating almost all their ill-gotten gains to orphanages, and even adopted other homeless people, giving them a purpose, a place.

If Dutch Van der Linde hadn't consistently lured these poor, adopted people into becoming his accomplices and criminals, corrupting them with his ideology, he would probably have liked this gang very much, perhaps even admired them.

Because this gang, in their own twisted way, was more sincere and kinder than ninety-nine percent of the rich, outwardly respectable people in the current era.

To put it harshly, behind the powerful Howling Wolf Gang were formidable figures like Mr. Cornwall himself and several other magnates of the West, pulling their strings, funding their operations. Otherwise, how could they possibly possess and operate a lucrative gold mine in a society so utterly controlled by capital, by the rich? It would be impossible.

Comparing the two, the ruthless, purely self-serving capitalists versus the strangely altruistic outlaws, this disparity was also the main reason why Mr. Milton consistently gave the Van der Linde Gang opportunities, offering them repeated warnings instead of direct, annihilating action.

For instance, the O'Driscoll Gang, also a gang of desperadoes, had previously been almost completely annihilated, reduced to only sixty members, a broken, barely functioning remnant. Yet for the Van der Linde Gang, he had warned them repeatedly without ever directly acting, without unleashing the full force of Pinkerton. (This refers to the game's narrative, where after the Van der Linde Gang robbed Mr. Cornwall's train, Mr. Cornwall placed a hefty order for their capture, but Milton never actually directly engaged them, opting for a cat-and-mouse game.)

Seeing the clear, undisguised disgust on Mr. Milton's face, a subtle curl of his lip, Mr. Fusal's own expression grew even grimmer, hardening into a mask of cold fury. He clenched his fists at his sides.

He no longer bothered with pleasantries, abandoning all pretense of civility, and spoke directly, his voice sharp and precise: "Mr. Milton, I know you don't like me, and of course, I don't like you either. Let's not pretend." He gestured impatiently. "But this matter doesn't require us to like each other. This urgent task is Mr. Cornwall's direct request, his imperative."

"Mr. Cornwall has decided to pay double the previous price for your services," Fusal continued, his voice laced with a subtle threat, "to resolve the Van der Linde Gang problem, to eliminate them completely."

"In addition," Fusal added, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "Mr. Cornwall has allied with the dignitaries of Saint Denis. He will facilitate the New Hanover state government and the Lemoyne state government sending troops, formal military action, against the Van der Linde Gang. Before that, your Pinkerton Detective agency's crucial information and encirclement are needed. You just need to be responsible for containing and encircling the Van der Linde Gang. Once they are surrounded in one place, trapped, the army will move in and completely wipe out this damned gang!" He finished, his eyes gleaming with anticipation, clearly unaware of the recent events in Saint Denis.

Poor Mr. Fusal was still waiting for decrees from Saint Denis, still operating under the assumption of their power; he didn't even know that the Saint Denis council members who could issue such decrees had already become mere puppets, pigs raised by the Van der Linde Gang, stripped of all authority.

Listening to Mr. Fusal's words, Mr. Milton's face finally showed a flicker of genuine shock, a subtle widening of his eyes. He exchanged a quick, meaningful glance with Mr. Ross, who was standing silently beside him. Both men's minds raced, recalling the unsettling scene they had recently witnessed in Valentine: the outpouring of popular support for Dutch Van der Linde.

Dutch Van der Linde had indeed gained the people's support, Milton silently acknowledged.

Perhaps these loyal, fervent people wouldn't actively follow Dutch to wantonly kill and besiege the government, not directly. But if the New Hanover state government, or even Lemoyne, dared to send troops to besiege Dutch Van der Linde, to openly attack him, then these ordinary people, these farmers and laborers, would surely rush forward, spurred by their loyalty, and riot, turning the tide against the authorities!

The soldiers of New Hanover, and even Lemoyne, were primarily natives of their respective states, meaning their families, their neighbors, could very likely be ardent supporters of Van der Linde. A civil conflict would be catastrophic.

Furthermore, he had heard persistent rumors about the Veteran Club's formidable reputation during this time, their growing influence. With this double overlay of popular unrest and military reluctance, he felt that the New Hanover army and the Lemoyne army might not have much, if any, real effect against Dutch's forces.

The main, terrifying reason was the potential for a civilian riot, a spontaneous uprising!

Their Pinkerton Detective agency had already been issued the severe "Pinkerton Detective Restriction Act" by the Federal Government a few years ago, leveraging their brutal suppression of past worker riots as justification. If they were to stir up another civilian riot in the West now, the consequences, both political and operational, would be unimaginable, potentially dissolving their agency entirely.

Their very essence of appearing in the West to serve various powerful capitalists, protecting their interests, was merely to barely survive, to maintain their foothold. Stirring up civilian riots would be directly digging up their very roots, destroying their reason for existence. They couldn't possibly sacrifice everything of the Pinkerton Detective agency, their entire organization, for this relatively small amount of money! It wasn't worth the risk.

Mr. Milton solidified his conviction, his face hardening with resolve.

"Army encirclement? Ho ho ho, Mr. Cornwall is indeed generous with his coin! But I think we cannot accept this mission, Mr. Fusal." Milton stated, his voice calm, resolute, but with a subtle, mocking undertone. He offered a slight, almost imperceptible shrug, a gesture of professional regret. "All our personnel have already been fully deployed in West Elizabeth, Mr. Fusal. The O'Driscoll Gang has now gathered over five hundred members, a formidable force, and they are openly preparing to move on Blackwater Town. I think for this operation against the Van der Linde Gang, we are willing in spirit, but utterly unable in practical terms. Our resources are stretched thin."

Listening to Mr. Milton's cool, measured words, Mr. Fusal's face turned completely grim, a mask of cold fury. His eyes narrowed dangerously. He said coldly, his voice dripping with menace, "Is that so, Mr. Milton? How is it that I didn't know you Pinkerton Detective agents cared so much about the lives of the common people? Oh, damn it, this is Mr. Cornwall's will, his direct command, not a suggestion! And Mr. Cornwall brooks no insubordination!"

"Given Mr. Cornwall's immense stature, his vast influence, if you truly go against his wishes, against his direct command, I think you Pinkerton Detective agency will find it difficult to receive any so-called missions in the West ever again, if you even manage to remain operational!" Mr. Fusal's words were laced with an unmistakable, icy threat, his eyes gleaming with a malicious satisfaction.

Mr. Milton's face remained unpleasant, a tight mask of controlled irritation. Just as he was about to speak, to offer a rebuttal, an unexpected voice, calm and cutting, rang out, interrupting their tense exchange.

"Oh ho ho ho, is that so, Mr. Fusal?" Dutch's voice, smooth and melodious, yet with an unmistakable edge of predatory amusement, drifted from behind Milton. "So Mr. Cornwall has such great influence in the West? Oh, Arthur, damn it, you didn't even remind me that Mr. Cornwall had such great influence! If I had known this news, what would it matter if we gave that batch of clothes to Mr. Cornwall? Perhaps we could have secured more influence in return!" He chuckled, a deep, knowing sound.

Dutch stepped forward, emerging from the shadows of the ferry building, his arms spread wide in a welcoming gesture, a mocking smile on his face. "Oh, by the way, Mr. Fusal, do you want to return my batch of clothes to me now?" His eyes, cold and piercing, fixed on Fusal, a silent, chilling demand that went beyond mere clothing.