Path

It was rare for Flying Eagle, who usually spoke very little, to be able to talk so much. His face remained resolute, his expression still serious, but in his eyes, there was a light of conviction!

This light could support him in giving up his identity as the next tribal chief, could support him in giving up his easily obtainable status, could support him in not caring about his own life, all for that tiny bit of the light of equality he had already seen in his heart.

Mr. Dutch Van der Linde's ideals, they deeply moved him!

Rains Fall's gaze was fixed on his son's face; that old, bitter gourd-like face showed no expression, but his eyes were full of satisfaction.

After a long while, he finally spoke slowly: "Congratulations, my son. I see you have found your own path.

All my life, I have been worried about finding a path for the Indians. I once saw no hope ahead.

But now, Mr. Van der Linde's arrival has solved the problem of no clear path for me, and now, I think you should also go find your own path. My son!

As for the issues you are worried about, they will no longer be problems. Living with Mr. Van der Linde means we no longer need our own armed forces, so I will give up my chief's rights. From now on, our tribe will be completely under Mr. Van der Linde's full control. I think this is also the true sincerity we can show."

Rains Fall's words were gentle and wistful.

His eyes looked at the flickering flames in the distance, and in his mind, he recalled his many years of struggle, unwillingness, hostility, forbearance, and finally, complete resignation.

The Indian system was no longer able to adapt to this world; after so many years of struggle for his people, he felt it was time to give up.

"Father!" Flying Eagle's eyes were full of sorrow. Even Charles, standing beside him, looked pained.

He didn't know what he was empathizing with. In short, he was very empathetic.

However, the atmosphere in this area was a bit out of place. Because everyone else was laughing and making noise, only these three guys were crying and yelling here.

The flickering bonfire illuminated Dutch's tent. Damn it, their gang's old tents hadn't been thrown away; in fact, they had now become their nostalgic grounds to recall past hardships and appreciate present sweetness.

Melodious classical music emanated from the gramophone in Dutch's tent. The shadows cast by the firelight on the gramophone's disc shifted and danced, graceful as startled swans.

Dutch and Molly, Arthur and Mary, John and Abigail, three gang couples, were dancing gracefully in front of Dutch's tent.

Damn it, Charles was feeling terribly sad, yet over here, they were dancing intimately. This was simply not how a gang should behave.

Dutch and Molly's dance steps were elegant and unhurried, showing they practiced often. They were also whispering to each other, appearing exceptionally sweet.

Arthur was far worse; his ox-like body controlling Mary was like a large horse pulling a small cart, his movements a bit clumsy.

And John was even worse. How could such a dull person possibly dance? Moreover, he seemed somewhat unwilling and perfunctory in this dance. Abigail wasn't good either; they held hands, pretending, one moment he stepped on her foot, the next she stomped on his.

Their awkwardness made Arthur frown deeply; he tried to whisper to Mary but the atmosphere was ruined by John's occasional yelps.

Arthur frowned deeply. Everyone knew he disliked Marston the most.

"Oh, sh*t!, Marston! Even the sheep on the slaughter table bleat more elegantly than you!"

"Good heavens! You won't even let me off the hook at a time like this?" John's classic line, "Good heavens!" burst from his mouth.

For this quiet young man, making him say these two sentences was already a big challenge.

"Oh oh oh! I truly don't know how you grew up like this. You can't swim, you're no good at anything, and now you can't even learn to dance. If the wolves on the snowy mountain ate your brain, wouldn't they all turn into stupid dogs?" Arthur's thoughts had shifted from sweet talk with Mary to scolding Marston.

He even twisted his head back; he had to look when scolding John.

"F*ck! Morgan, can't you shut up? Why do you always have to focus on my life? You damned bastard!

And, I've already learned to swim, I told you!" John was furious, but he simply couldn't out-argue that damned Arthur Morgan.

His mouth was too foul; no one could out-talk him.

But their bickering also successfully made Dutch lose his feeling of intimacy.

"Sh*t!, Arthur, can't you shut up! Damn it, now I can't even properly dance one dance. I feel like you're going to infuriate me to death sooner or later! And John, I told you, why don't you just ignore him?"

Dutch was exasperated; his resilient heart was always twitching from Arthur's provocations.

Why had he become like this now?

Was it because he could only say nice things outside, so all the trash talk had to be said at home?

"Arthur!" Mary pinched Arthur's waist hard, making him grimace in pain.

"Alright, alright, I won't say anything! Oh, good heavens, now you two won't even let me say a single word. How am I supposed to live like this?" Arthur hung his head, repeatedly admitting defeat. He felt that life was truly too boring now.

Outside, to maintain his image, he couldn't curse, couldn't rob whenever he wanted, couldn't kill in the street, and now, he couldn't even insult others when he came back.

Damn it, he should have known better than to kill Mac back then; at least then he could have cursed him a few times a day.

For the first time, Arthur uncharacteristically had a thought of missing Mac.

Actually, Mac wasn't so bad, was he? At least when he cursed him, Mac didn't dare talk back.

Pearson, the old man, and Ms. Susan sat on small stools nearby, watching the farce with smiles on their faces.

Except for Susan, who was a little jealous.

Little Jack, on the other hand, was happily playing with mud by himself.

"Uncle Arthur, look, this is the dog sh*t! I molded."