Liberation

A sudden, calm voice, carrying an undercurrent of predatory amusement, interrupted the tense conversation between Mr. Fusal and Mr. Milton.

The expressions of both men changed instantly, their faces snapping to alertness. Mr. Milton's eyes narrowed, a flicker of professional caution. Mr. Fusal, however, went utterly slack with terror, his jaw dropping.

"Oh, sh*t!" he gasped, a horrified, almost choked curse. With a frantic spin, he whirled around to look, his eyes wide and disbelieving.

A unit. Yes, a unit, an actual army, appeared before his eyes, materializing from the morning mist and the winding mountain paths!

Ten heavy Maxim guns were already expertly set up on the winding mountain path overlooking the mine, their dark barrels glinting malevolently in the dim light. The main road of the mine, usually bustling with coal carts, was now completely filled with dense ranks of uniformed, gun-wielding soldiers, their bayonets fixed, standing in eerie silence.

A prominent artillery piece, its massive barrel a dark, intimidating cylinder, was aimed directly, precisely, at Mr. Fusal's exposed position by the ferry. The sight alone caused Mr. Milton, ever cautious, to quietly, almost imperceptibly, pull Mr. Ross back a full ten meters, widening the distance between them and the immediate danger zone.

Even the heavy coal trucks that were about to depart, their engines rumbling, had suddenly fallen silent, their drivers frozen at the sight, their rumbling engines now just a quiet hum.

Dense, unwavering ranks of soldiers meticulously guarded every high ground and every crucial intersection of the Annesburg mine, their gun barrels densely aimed at Mr. Fusal, who stood exposed by the ferry, a lone figure amidst a sea of silent, armed men.

Roughly scanning the overwhelming display of force, there were at least three hundred gunmen standing on the distant high ground, their forms almost invisible in the early morning haze, silently aiming their guns at Fusal by the ferry, a silent, deadly promise.

Dutch, strikingly composed, rode a magnificent white horse, its coat gleaming faintly, and stood perfectly still on the main road in Annesburg not far away, a figure of calm authority. Beside him, Arthur Morgan, a shotgun held casually in one hand, its barrel glinting, casually aimed it, with an almost bored precision, directly at Mr. Fusal's head.

Terror. Extreme, soul-shattering terror.

Damn you, Van der Linde, did you bring an entire army here? Fusal's mind screamed, his heart pounding against his ribs.

Why did Mr. Cornwall's gunmen have no warning whatsoever? Why did these damn Annesburg residents not make any exclamations, not a single sound of alarm? The eerie silence of the town was as terrifying as the guns.

Damn it, this is an army!!! The realization slammed into him with the force of a physical blow.

"Fa… f*ck! Van der Linde, you're a lunatic! You're a lunatic!" Mr. Fusal shrieked, his voice cracking with sheer, unadulterated terror. His gaze darted frantically, wildly, constantly scanning his surroundings, desperately searching for anything that could bring him a semblance of security, a hidden escape route, a loyal face, anything.

However, a horrifying realization dawned on him: all thirty of Mr. Cornwall's gunmen in Annesburg had completely disappeared. Vanished. Gone.

Oh, sh*t! he thought, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow. Why didn't these damn things resist at all?! F*ck! F*ck!! The betrayal, the utter lack of resistance, sent a fresh wave of panic through him.

Seeing Fusal looking left and right, his eyes wide with desperate confusion, Dutch merely chuckled, a low, guttural sound, then laughed heartily, the sound echoing ominously across the mine.

"Don't look, hillbilly." Dutch's voice, calm and laced with a cutting contempt, reached Fusal. He gestured dismissively with a flick of his wrist. "Your subordinates were all controlled by my people while you were busy talking to Mr. Milton, too absorbed to notice the inevitable."

Dutch's smile widened, revealing a flash of white teeth. "Now, Mr. Fusal, can I have my batch of clothes back? The ones you so brazenly 'confiscated'?" His tone was light, but his eyes held a chilling demand.

Dutch's face was full of triumphant smiles. He dismounted his white horse with graceful ease, its hooves clopping softly on the damp ground, and then slowly, deliberately, began to walk towards Mr. Fusal's position, each step a deliberate encroachment.

"Don't come any closer! Damn it, Van der Linde, you damned idiot!" Mr. Fusal screamed, his voice a frantic, high-pitched wail as he watched Mr. Van der Linde walking closer, step by agonizing step, an unstoppable force. He frantically, clumsily, pulled out his pistol from its holster, his hand trembling, but just as he raised it, a sharp, deafening gunshot rang out.

"Bang!"

Accompanied by a sudden flash of fire from Dutch's pistol and Mr. Fusal's piercing cry of pain, the pistol in his hand was violently shot from his grip, clattering uselessly to the ground.

Dutch, with practiced ease, reloaded his pistol into its holster, its click echoing in the sudden silence, and then laughed heartily, a deep, booming sound that filled the air. "Hahaha, Mr. Fusal, I don't think the Saint Denis Government and the New Hanover Government will put me on trial. Not anymore. Because I can't exactly put myself on trial, can I?" His eyes gleamed with a chilling mockery.

"As for you, Mr. Fusal," Dutch's voice hardened, his eyes narrowing to slits, "you need to face righteous judgment! My judgment."

Shot in the hand by Dutch, a searing pain, Mr. Fusal screamed in sheer terror, clutching his bleeding hand, his body trembling violently.

"Oh, sh*t! Damn it, damn it!" he shrieked, his voice ragged with pain and desperation. "You can't judge me, you lunatic, Dutch Van der Linde! You are a lunatic! You're mad!"

He looked wildly at the assembled gunmen, then back at Dutch, his voice rising in frantic, desperate pleas. "Damn it, what you've done has been seen by the people of Annesburg! Within a month, this matter will surely spread to the East, carried by every rumor, and it will surely reach the ears of more powerful people, the true rulers! They will not tolerate the existence of a lunatic like you; you will only be judged by them! Crushed!"

"Oh, no, listen to me, Mr. Van der Linde, why don't you let me go?!" Fusal's words transformed into desperate pleading, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the sweat and rain. "If you let me go, I'll ask Mr. Cornwall to mediate! I'll make it right! Just let me go! Otherwise, you'll die too! You'll be ruined!"

Mr. Fusal watched Dutch drawing closer, his words changing repeatedly, from initial curses to finally attempting desperate threats and pathetic pleas, fully displaying the raw, unadulterated panic consuming his inner being. He was a broken man.

At this point, how could he not understand that he had absolutely no room left to resist, no leverage whatsoever. However, he still clung to one last, fragile hope, which was the irresistible spread of public opinion, the power of information reaching the far-off East.

However, upon hearing this, the smile on Dutch's face grew even wider, stretching into a triumphant, almost predatory grin. He spread his hands wide in a gesture of profound, unsettling confidence, and his Little Mustache twitched with a subtle, mocking amusement as he said, "Mr. Fusal, haven't you noticed yet? The people of Annesburg have actually been with me all along! They are my loyal allies. Otherwise, how could we have possibly come here, deployed an army, without causing a single disturbance that would have caught your attention?" His voice was calm, utterly chilling in its revelation.

As Dutch's words left his mouth, Mr. Fusal was visibly stunned, his eyes wide, his jaw slack. The truth, so obvious yet so unfathomable, slammed into him.

That's right, he thought, a cold, sickening realization. Why didn't those damned commoners exclaim? Why were they so silent? Damn it, the Van der Linde Gang's gunmen completely surrounded this place, and they didn't make a sound, not a single sound! Otherwise, he would have known what was happening behind him long ago, he would have been warned!

Fusal now understood, with a horrifying clarity, that something was profoundly amiss. His gaze immediately, desperately, turned to the streets of Annesburg, seeking confirmation.

At this moment, the residents of Annesburg, who were indeed surrounded by armed gunmen on the streets, were surprisingly not in a panic, not even a flicker of fear on their faces. Instead, they all stood cooperatively in place, their postures relaxed, their faces turned towards the road. They looked at Mr. Van der Linde, who was still mounted on his magnificent white horse, with expressions of profound admiration, bordering on reverence!

At this moment, someone in the crowd of Annesburg residents noticed Mr. Fusal's desperate gaze. He immediately responded to him, his voice loud and contemptuous, pointing a finger at Fusal. "Hey, look at this damned idiot, still looking at us! I bet he's surprised why we had no reaction at all. He thinks we're blind!"

Saying this, he burst out laughing with his companions beside him, their collective mirth echoing through the mine, a sound of triumph.

"Hahaha, look at this damned Fusal, this damned beast, he's bullied us quite a bit during his time here, exploiting us mercilessly! Now that Mr. Van der Linde is here, this beast is finally getting his just deserts!" another resident added, shaking his fist at Fusal.

"My goodness, Mr. Van der Linde is truly as great and charismatic as you all said! I don't know why I always feel a strong sense of security, an utter calm, around Mr. Van der Linde. It's like a miracle!" a woman exclaimed, clasping her hands to her chest.

"Damn it, I can't even imagine a day when I wouldn't panic at all when a group of gunmen surrounds me! But with him, it's different!" she added, a look of profound wonder on her face.

"Of course you won't panic, you damned scoundrel," a man retorted playfully, nudging her. "Mr. Van der Linde is here, and good days are coming! What do you have to panic about? You're not this damned Fusal, are you? You haven't oppressed us!"

The passersby in Annesburg, surrounded by heavily armed gunmen, discussed their new reality with great enthusiasm, one after another, their voices rising with excitement. Smiles were plastered on everyone's faces, wide and genuine, and they looked at Mr. Van der Linde before them with eager anticipation, their bodies almost trembling with joy, so joyful they almost wanted to sing and dance on the spot, to celebrate their newfound liberation.

Who in New Hanover, indeed, who across the land, doesn't know that Mr. Van der Linde now represents happiness, prosperity, a tangible promise of a better life?

When Mr. Van der Linde came to Valentine, the people of Valentine lived a happy, secure life, free from want.

When Mr. Van der Linde came to Rhodes, the people of Rhodes were miraculously rescued by Mr. Van der Linde from the clutches of the two damned, oppressive families. Now everyone has food to eat, a home to live in, and their children can go to school for free, a luxury once unimaginable.

These coal miners, exploited and downtrodden, had been waiting here with anxious hearts, hoping every single day for the arrival of Mr. Van der Linde to bring a glimmer of hope to their otherwise hopeless, miserable lives.

They prayed day and and night, whispering his name like a benediction, for the arrival of Mr. Van der Linde.

And now that Mr. Van der Linde has truly arrived, his promise made manifest, how could they possibly feel that damned fear, that paralyzing terror, other than an overwhelming, intoxicating excitement?

Mr. Fusal, now abandoned by his guards and exposed, was thoroughly berated by the surging crowd, their words like venomous darts.

Some of the miners, their faces contorted with long-suppressed rage, even grew more agitated as they cursed, their voices rising to a fever pitch. Immediately, some tough, determined individuals charged towards Mr. Fusal, their eyes burning with a desire for retribution.

"Don't eat sour radishes! Damned Fusal, you actually tried to lay hands on Mr. Van der Linde, our savior! Damn it, you beast who only deserves to go to hell!" one miner roared, his fist raised.

"Beat him to death! Beat him to death!!" others chanted, a rising chorus of violent intent.

"Watch out for Mr. Van der Linde's safety! Damn it, form a human wall around Mr. Van der Linde!" a calm, commanding voice from the gunmen interjected, ensuring their leader's protection amidst the chaos.

A furious group of Annesburg miners chased after Mr. Fusal like a pack of vengeful zombies, their eyes alight with righteous fury, their movements driven by years of accumulated resentment.

Of course, the main reason for their eagerness, beyond the genuine hatred, was to explicitly show off in front of Mr. Van der Linde, to demonstrate their unwavering loyalty and zeal.

"Don't eat sour radishes, you damned idiots, you actually dare to… Ow! Stop hitting me! Oh, sh*t!" Mr. Fusal shrieked, his voice choked with pain, trying desperately to run, to escape the mob. But the ferry was behind him, a watery dead end, so he couldn't escape at all, utterly trapped.

A group of people, in hot pursuit, their faces grim, quickly caught up and kicked Mr. Fusal to the ground, sending him sprawling. And then, a brave, eager group of workers, their faces determined, bravely rushed forward, not to hurt him further necessarily, but rather to simply help Mr. Van der Linde solve his troubles, to deliver him his captive.

Mr. Fusal was surrounded, pressed down, and summarily kicked by the triumphant crowd, his screams echoing in the newly liberated Annesburg.