Conversion

A furious group of people, their faces contorted with long-held resentment, continued to violently beat Fusal, their kicks and punches raining down on his prostrate form. Yet, Dutch's steps didn't falter in the slightest; he maintained his calm, purposeful stride, nor did he make a sound to halt the workers' riot. His gaze remained fixed forward, a chilling indifference in his eyes.

Fusal and Cornwall, as far as Dutch was concerned, were both irrevocably finished. Their power broken, their influence shattered beyond repair.

Guarma had been legally occupied by him, its strategic importance secured, and the Spanish army utterly annihilated. Mr. Fusal now had absolutely nothing left, stripped bare of all wealth and influence; taking him to dig mines, Dutch mused, would be too much trouble, too much of a logistical inconvenience for such a negligible return, so there was no real need to target him at all. His fate, sealed by the furious mob, was a triviality.

Mr. Cornwall's lucrative sugar business was utterly ruined, his vital coal tar plant occupied, and now this Annesburg mine, a cornerstone of his industrial empire, was also forcefully seized by the relentless Van der Linde Gang. Cornwall, the mighty industrialist, had at most fifty percent of his vast wealth left, a mere shadow of his former power.

Now, with a subtle, triumphant grin playing on his lips, Dutch Van der Linde already controlled the two sprawling states of New Hanover and Lemoyne; Cornwall was simply no longer a match for him, a vastly outmatched, fading opponent.

So, what if Mr. Fusal was beaten to death on the spot? It was merely an inconsequential footnote, a minor detail in his grand, unfolding design.

However, Dutch's steps still didn't stop. He moved with a deliberate, unhurried pace, his presence radiating an undeniable aura of power, slowly approaching the rigid, unmoving figure of Mr. Milton.

At this moment, Mr. Milton's expression was a complex, unreadable tapestry of emotions, too profound, too contradictory to fully comprehend. His usual composure was strained, a mask of professionalism barely holding.

He looked at Dutch Van der Linde, who was getting closer with every measured step, his gaze a mixture of professional caution and a dawning, unwilling respect. He watched the Annesburg workers, a furious, uncontrolled mob, rioting violently behind Dutch due to his very arrival, a raw testament to the man's magnetic influence. He saw the countless gunmen, their forms spread all over the mountains and plains, their terrifying firepower a stark, undeniable reality. Finally, he spoke, his voice heavy with a complex mix of apprehension and grudging acknowledgment:

"Dutch Van der Linde." His tone was flat, almost a statement of unavoidable fact rather than a greeting, his eyes fixed on Dutch's.

"Yes, Mr. Milton." Dutch stopped directly in front of Mr. Milton, his posture relaxed, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips, a picture of absolute confidence. He radiated an almost serene authority.

As Dutch approached, Agent Ross's steps involuntarily, almost unconsciously, retreated a full pace, his eyes wide with unconcealed awe and fear. His hand hovered nervously near his sidearm, but made no move to draw. This was clearly out of primal instinct, not an intention to engage.

Dutch Van der Linde was no longer someone they, mere Pinkerton agents, could contend with, not in any meaningful way. The tables had turned irrevocably. Forget about even contemplating drawing a gun to threaten Dutch now; Ross didn't even dare to speak loudly to Dutch, his voice caught in his throat by sheer intimidation.

The status of the two sides had already irrevocably shifted. The hunter had become the hunted, and now, even the hunters were utterly powerless.

Even if Dutch Van der Linde were to give an explicit order now for these gunmen, his loyal army, to encircle and annihilate them, the Pinkerton Detectives would no longer take any targeted, direct action against Dutch Van der Linde, or rather, the entire, rapidly expanding Van der Linde Gang. Their directive from the Federal government would mean nothing against this overwhelming force.

Arthur, holding a shotgun aimed casually but effectively at Agent Ross, its barrel gleaming, slowly followed behind Dutch, his presence a silent threat. Although he appeared outwardly expressionless, his face a mask of professional neutrality, a subtle, almost imperceptible smile was already forming at the corner of his mouth, a flicker of profound satisfaction, a private triumph.

Damn it, he thought, a wave of pure exhilaration washing over him, no one could possibly understand the sheer joy, the profound vindication he felt at this moment! His heart hammered against his ribs.

Four months ago, Mr. Ross, then the dominant figure, had held a shotgun aimed directly at Arthur, his face grim, and they had shared their very first, terse conversation in the dusty town of Valentine. The memory was stark, a reminder of their former vulnerability.

Four months later, the situation was flipped. Gun barrels from all over the mountains and plains, a terrifying array of firepower, were now aimed with chilling precision at Mr. Ross and Mr. Milton. Arthur still held his shotgun, its barrel gleaming, aimed casually but resolutely at Mr. Ross's chest, a silent reminder of their reversal of fortune. And now, the two sides were about to have their second, vastly different conversation, a meeting of transformed power dynamics.

In just four short months, the tables had not merely turned; they had been utterly, spectacularly overturned. As Arthur, who had once been the one aimed at with a shotgun, he felt an incredible, deeply satisfying sense of triumph and poetic justice!

"Ah, Mr. Milton, it's good to see you again!" Arthur drawled, a sarcastic glint in his eye. He raised an eyebrow, a slight, mocking gesture, and then slowly, deliberately, lowered the shotgun in his hand, though not entirely, keeping it ready. The subtle, triumphant smile that now spread across his face made Mr. Milton's jaw clench, his facial muscles twitching in irritation.

"Mr. Morgan!" Mr. Milton managed, a curt nod of acknowledgment, his voice tight. Then his gaze, cold and unwavering, returned to Dutch Van der Linde, the true, formidable power in this unfolding drama.

"Mr. Milton, I remember telling you before." Dutch had a faint, knowing smile on his face, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He gestured expansively at the transformed Annesburg, a subtle sweep of his hand, indicating the burgeoning order. "This place is already a civilized land! I think you should see the results now, Mr. Milton. The fruits of our labor, our vision."

Listening to Dutch's words, Mr. Milton's expression was unusually grim, a tight mask of controlled displeasure. He stared intently at Dutch, his eyes piercing, trying to find a crack in the man's formidable composure, a weakness. "Perhaps, Mr. Van der Linde," he began, his voice low, measured, and deliberate, "but I don't think highly of you. You are like a fish swimming from a small river into the vast, turbulent ocean. Perhaps you can sail smoothly, masterfully navigate this narrow river, but in the boundless, unforgiving ocean, I don't think you have any chance of winning. You will drown." His voice held a chilling conviction.

Milton continued, his voice taking on a warning, almost prophetic tone, his gaze hardening with a grim resolve. "Perhaps in your eyes, your team has grown larger, and your strength in New Hanover is rarely matched, indeed impressive in this localized context. But in the face of true power, the power of the federal government, the entrenched elite, you are still precarious, fragile even. Your position is like standing on the very edge of a precipice, a sheer drop below."

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, a rare, genuine note of caution entering his tone. "The upper echelons of Americans, Mr. Van der Linde, they will not allow you to exist, not in this new, revolutionary form, just as they will not allow rogue elements like the Pinkerton Detectives to exist unregulated. And now, I think your very last chance is to take your money, gather your immense, ill-gotten gains, and leave here, leave America, for good. Go to Mexico, go to Canada. In short, this may be your last, and only, opportunity to survive, to disappear."

Mr. Milton no longer hoped to capture Dutch Van der Linde. That ambition had died a slow, painful death in his mind, replaced by a chilling pragmatism. He had witnessed Dutch's audacious actions during this period, especially the rapid, transformative development of Valentine and the astonishing, widespread recruitment of loyal employees, which had further, unexpectedly, improved the impression of the Van der Linde Gang in his mind.

Dutch Van der Linde had always been a cold-blooded murderer in his mind, a cunning villain who deceitfully lured others into his criminal gang with false promises. But now, after seeing the genuine prosperity and fervent loyalty he had inspired, Milton had somewhat changed his view, a grudging acknowledgment of Dutch's unconventional charisma and effectiveness. He was a force, albeit a dangerous one.

This shift in perspective also led to Mr. Milton's words, though not pleasant to hear, being remarkably genuine truths, a stark, unvarnished assessment of Dutch's perilous position. The advice to leave America was also genuine advice, a rare moment of professional honesty and concern, despite their adversarial roles.

If the Van der Linde Gang truly listened to his words, abandoned their grand, dangerous ambitions, and left America now, they would certainly survive, and with their current immense wealth, they would definitely live a comfortable, luxurious life elsewhere, far from the reach of American law.

The capitalists and Senators in the American East, for all their power, would not go to such great lengths, expend such vast resources, for a few desperadoes who had merely taken a sum of money and fled. They would cut their losses and forget them, a minor nuisance removed.

It could be said that, even now, Mr. Milton, despite their adversarial roles, was still giving the Van der Linde Gang a rare, golden opportunity, a clear path to survival, an opportunity he, with his access to intelligence, could clearly see.

Listening to Mr. Milton's words, Dutch nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face, his eyes fixed on Milton's.

"Oh, Mr. Milton, thank you for your advice. Indeed." Dutch's voice was warm, almost disarmingly sincere, though his eyes held a glint of steel, a subtle challenge. He offered a slight, almost imperceptible bow of his head, a gesture of ironic politeness. "Although the sound is not very beautiful, rather blunt, I can clearly hear that it is a sincere opinion, offered with genuine concern." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic, yet joyous, scene of the Annesburg workers, then back to Milton. "However, I don't think I can escape America according to your idea. Because now, Mr. Milton, America needs me, not I need America! The tide has turned, and I am its current."

Dutch spread his hands wide, a grand, encompassing gesture towards the elated workers and his disciplined troops, taking them all in. "Mr. Milton, look around, look at these workers, their faces alight with hope, their eyes filled with gratitude. Look at my loyal troops, their commitment unwavering. Their very lives, their hopes for the future, are already on my shoulders, a sacred trust I will not abandon."

His voice swelled with passion, becoming a powerful, almost messianic declaration, filling the air. "I want to give them a good life, Mr. Milton, just like the life I once expected for myself, the life that was denied to me. Civilization is not spoken into existence, nor is it merely the progress and development of technology, shiny new inventions. No! True civilization, Mr. Milton, is the congruence between noble thought, a just system, and the flourishing lives of the people! It is not like those Eastern capitalists or the Federal Government of America, who speak grand words of freedom and prosperity but commit evil, exploitative deeds of oppressing the common people! They are hypocrites, living a lie!"

Dutch's face hardened, his eyes burning with an almost zealous conviction. "They claim this is a civilized era, yet their vast assets are obtained through the most despicable means, through blood and exploitation, just as ridiculous and hypocritical as when I used to rob their money to aid orphans! Their 'civilization' is a sham, a cruel illusion!"

"Mr. Milton, as you said, perhaps they will not tolerate my existence, perhaps they will try to crush me. But I think it will not be so easy for them to deal with me, not now," Dutch declared, his voice ringing with absolute certainty, his jaw set. "Because the American people, my people, will never let me fall! They will rise to my defense, a tide against which no army can stand!" Dutch's final words were delivered with a thunderous force, his voice echoing across the ferry, his arm sweeping in a grand, possessive arc over the land and its newly liberated people. "All oppression and evil will ultimately be purified by true civilization! By my civilization!"