Dunbar

The terrifying Arch-Demon Dutch Van der Linde, a name whispered in fear and awe, after the infamous Battle of Blackwater that forever scarred the town, was once again, impossibly, returning to Blackwater. The very thought sent shivers down the spines of those who knew his name.

What would the beleaguered citizens and desperate officials of Blackwater do in response to this looming shadow? How would they react to the return of the man who had brought so much destruction?

However, at this very moment, consumed by the immediate and overwhelming threat of surrounding gangs, they likely had no time, no mental capacity, to concern themselves with that terrifying, future matter. Their present was a living nightmare.

Blackwater. Once a beacon of burgeoning civilization in the West, now a shadow of its former self.

After the Van der Linde Gang achieved their infamous, bloody notoriety in the Battle of Blackwater, both the town and the gang veered sharply towards opposite extremes. The gang ascended to power; Blackwater descended into ruin.

Blackwater, which originally boasted a total population of 120,000 and was rapidly developing into a thriving city, poised for greatness, was utterly devastated by the battle. Its once-vibrant arteries were choked. Foreign merchants, their faces pale with fear, swiftly withdrew their investments, leaving a gaping void. Various factories and shops, once bustling, were sold off or mortgaged to banks, leaving Blackwater with a crippling mountain of debt and the shattered ruins of a newly constructed, yet unfinished, city.

With the abrupt and total withdrawal of capital, no one was paying wages or hiring workers, which led to a significant, heartbreaking dispersion of the previously gathered population. Thousands fled, seeking survival elsewhere. Only the local residents of Blackwater remained, a hardy but desperate few, struggling to persevere in this desolate, broken place, haunted by memories of prosperity.

It could be truly said that the Van der Linde Gang brought a true apocalypse to Blackwater, a cataclysm that tore its very fabric.

In fact, when it comes to the geographical and strategic essence of Blackwater, there's quite a bit to unpack. Blackwater is strategically located along the sprawling river in West Elizabeth. Its proximity to Mexico is even closer than Saint Denis's distance to the border, offering a crucial trade route. Most importantly, it's situated on a vast, flat plain with incredibly convenient transportation links, offering far better, unhindered development prospects than the humid, disease-ridden swamps of Saint Denis.

Consequently, Blackwater was highly regarded by some influential people from the East, sharp-eyed capitalists and investors. It was meticulously chosen as the second, and soon to be the most mainstream, port connecting the burgeoning American economy to Mexico, a vital trade artery.

This strategic importance is precisely why Blackwater was able to attract a large, continuous stream of foreign investment, pouring millions into its infrastructure.

However, compared to the relatively safer Saint Denis, Blackwater's safety factor was historically slightly lower. This is due to the area's unfortunate abundance of numerous, violent gangs, including but not limited to the notorious O'Driscoll Gang, the audacious Van der Linde Gang themselves, the ruthless Laramy Gang, and the utterly brutal Skinners Brothers Gang, all preying on the weak.

But the confident capital groups from the East paid no mind to these threats, always feeling that the rough-and-tumble cowboy era had long passed, and that true civilization, with its inherent order, had finally arrived. Even in the wild West, they reasoned, no gang would truly dare to invade a city of this size; at most, they would merely hijack unsuspecting passersby or stage minor robberies, a manageable nuisance.

Under the confluence of various, seemingly favorable reasons, Blackwater became the optimal, most lucrative port for Eastern capital to penetrate Mexico, its rich markets, and as a direct result, Blackwater developed exceptionally rapidly in recent years, a boomtown of unprecedented growth.

This is the fundamental reason for Blackwater's meteoric rise. Otherwise, why would these shrewd capital groups not choose the safer, more easily controlled location of Valentine in eastern New Hanover, a less risky venture, but instead opt for the more dangerous, unpredictable West Elizabeth? The profit potential was simply too great to ignore.

But no one, not a single investor or official, expected that there truly would be a gang so brazen, so utterly audacious, as to dare to invade a town the size of a small city, to openly attack such a lucrative target.

Moreover, these people, the Van der Linde Gang, truly did go on a brutal killing spree, painting Blackwater in crimson, turning it into a bloody, chaotic mess, directly severing its future development, its very lifeblood. The boom had turned to bust overnight.

It also made those arrogant Eastern capital groups deeply, painfully realize that the West was still, irrevocably, the West—a wild, untamed land, rampant with ruthless gangs, their lawlessness a constant threat.

Gust after gust of strong wind swept relentlessly through Blackwater, kicking up swirling dust and sand that made it difficult, almost impossible, to open one's eyes. The air tasted of grit and decay.

Situated on a vast, open plain, Blackwater has an abundance of wind, and it's particularly strong, howling almost ceaselessly.

In some truly vast plains of America, tornadoes can even occur due to the sheer lack of obstructions, sweeping away everything in their path. Blackwater is relatively stable now; at least, it hasn't yet experienced a terrifying tornado attack, spared that particular natural disaster.

The wind blew mournfully through the deserted streets, causing the tattered decorations at the entrances of shops on both sides of the street to rustle and flap like wounded birds, their bright colors faded.

Ornate signboards, once proclaiming bustling businesses, now creaked forlornly. Exquisite decorations, meant to entice, hung askew. All-glass walls, reflecting the desolate sky, stood empty. Elegant coffee shops, once filled with polite chatter, were eerily silent… Blackwater seemed not to have fully emerged from its phantom prosperity, much like a man waking from a brutal hangover, still feeling dizzy, disoriented, unable to shake the lingering effects of the night before.

However, in stark, painful contrast to the opulent, if decaying, storefronts, the sparse pedestrians on the streets and their simple, worn clothing clearly revealed the underlying scarcity, the crushing poverty within Blackwater.

Pedestrians on the street walked briskly, their heads down, each with a haggard, desperate look on their faces, their eyes avoiding contact. Even those dressed slightly better carried visible weapons, their hands resting on holsters, and some even had grim-faced bodyguards, their presence a testament to the pervasive danger.

In addition, some rudimentary defensive fortifications could be seen scattered around Blackwater, hastily constructed. Of course, battles in this era were mostly trench warfare, a brutal, static affair, and indeed, a circle of shallow trenches was dug around Blackwater, a crude attempt at defense. Guards, their faces drawn, were stationed at various points, scanning the horizon, seemingly to defend against the unseen, surrounding threats.

As for how useful these primitive defensive fortifications would actually be against cunning, mounted gang members skilled in sneak attacks and fluid movements, that remained entirely unknown, a terrifying uncertainty.

As Mr. Van der Linde initiated his brutal bandit suppression campaign in New Hanover and Lemoyne, systematically cleansing the lands, West Elizabeth was thrown into utter chaos, becoming a desperate refuge for the displaced.

Countless gang members, both large and small, fled in panic from the relentless pursuit in New Hanover and Lemoyne, arriving in West Elizabeth and bringing devastating consequences to the already fragile public order of the state.

These myriad gang members, big and small, totaled at least two thousand people, a veritable flood of desperate, violent men. The daily living expenses for so many unproducing gang members were an astronomical sum, a ruinous cost, as not everyone could afford to support so many people like the unnervingly prosperous Mr. Van der Linde.

These gang members, having no legitimate means of income, did not engage in any form of production; to eat and drink, to sustain themselves, they could only resort to robbing the already suffering citizens of West Elizabeth.

Moreover, these people were utterly ruthless, their methods savage and indiscriminate. Whether it was the notorious O'Driscoll Gang, the even more brutal Skinners Brothers Gang, or the desperate remnants of the Lemoyne Raiders; they always killed, burned, and plundered everything in their path, leaving only desolation. This rampant violence also led to devastating blows for individual businesses and families in West Elizabeth, such as the tragic ranch owner who would later help John three years in the future, whose entire family would tragically die in this terrifying riot of bandits, wiped out by their savagery.

These gang members were also incredibly wasteful. For example, they were too lazy to raise stolen dairy cows for their milk and simply killed them indiscriminately for meat, wasting their potential. They were too lazy to raise stolen ponies and lambs for sustained profit and simply made them into roasted whole lambs, a one-time feast. In short, they had no regard whatsoever for the things they stole and used them up recklessly, utterly destroying their value. This wanton destruction also led to these gang members entering a state of severe famine after thoroughly plundering the entire West Elizabeth, with the notable exception of Blackwater, which remained a tantalizing, unreachable target.

Even the largest, most powerful O'Driscoll Gang, to sustain themselves and their dwindling numbers, had to resort to the desperate measure of going to New Austin to raid and rob the thriving Van der Linde Gang's supply lines. One could easily imagine how severe their current famine and desperation had become.

And this dire situation, this gnawing hunger, inevitably led these desperate gang members to set their predatory sights on Blackwater, the last remaining bastion of wealth.

Currently, the outskirts of Blackwater are basically completely surrounded by various desperate gangs, a tightening noose. As soon as someone bravely, or foolishly, leaves Blackwater's limited defenses, they will be swiftly surrounded, brutally killed, and stripped of all their belongings by eager gang members within a few hundred meters, their bodies left for scavengers.

Therefore, the gaunt, exhausted sheriff of Blackwater, Mr. Dunbar, had to begin strictly controlling Blackwater, allowing people to only leave but not enter, effectively turning it into a besieged fortress. Trenches were hastily dug around its perimeter to defend against potential attacks from the desperate, encircling gang members at any time.

The truly wealthy, the sharp-minded, had long since fled by boat, abandoning the sinking ship. Now, only the poor and the powerless remain in Blackwater, trapped in a cage of fear.

Of course, there is also the figure of authority, the sheriff of Blackwater: Mr. Dunbar himself.

Inside the Blackwater Police Station, a grim, austere building, the gaunt Sheriff Dunbar stood stoically at his desk, his shoulders slumped with weariness, meticulously wiping a well-worn revolver in his hand, its metal gleaming faintly.

On the wall next to his desk, clearly visible and a constant reminder of their enduring nemesis, were five prominent wanted posters, their aged paper curling slightly. One of them, a devilish figure with a wide, unsettling grin, was particularly eye-catching, almost mocking him.

Of course, what was most striking, drawing the eye like a beacon, was the enormous bounty amount listed below these five notorious individuals.

"Dutch Van der Linde, Bounty: $15,000. Ho-sea Matthews, Bounty: $5,000. Davey Callander: $5,000. Mac Callander: $5,000. Arthur Morgan: $5,000."

Ho-sea Matthews in the picture was smiling very happily, a jovial, almost innocent expression. Judging from the pristine state of this photo, it was likely taken at a photography studio in Blackwater itself, a chilling reminder of their audacity.

Standing beside Sheriff Dunbar, a familiar figure of grim determination, was Agent Andrew Milton, his posture stiff, accompanied by his equally stoic partner, Ross.

There were two main, pressing reasons for Mr. Milton's unwelcome presence here.

First, Mr. Cornwall's urgent order to arrest the elusive Colm O'Driscoll had not yet been completed, a lingering, frustrating failure.

Second, the Blackwater Police Department had officially ordered assistance from the Pinkertons in resisting the relentless, encircling gangs.

These two major, converging orders happened to coincide perfectly, which was why Mr. Milton, despite his misgivings, was here, drawn by duty and necessity.

Mr. Milton glanced at the five bounty posters on the wall, his eyes briefly sweeping over the familiar faces, then he looked directly at the gaunt Sheriff Dunbar in front of him, his face etched with exhaustion. "Sheriff, all the forces we can possibly deploy in the west have arrived, totaling 320 people. I think we'd better not engage in a direct confrontation with those gangs. Otherwise, our numbers will be completely insufficient, a suicide mission."

Mr. Milton said, looking down at the summary sheet clutched tightly in his hand, his face full of profound exhaustion, dark circles under his eyes.

He had been exceptionally busy, almost driven to breaking point, in West Elizabeth during this period. Running around ceaselessly, coordinating all aspects of defense, and constantly guarding against cunning sneak attacks from ruthless gang members—it was like one person doing the exhausting, impossible work of ten. He was stretched thin.

The O'Driscoll Gang, he knew, was completely different from the Van der Linde Gang. With the Van der Linde Gang, despite their criminal nature, he even dared to go directly to their hideout with only Ross, openly threatening them to hand over Dutch and leave. There was a strange code of conduct, an unspoken understanding.

But with the O'Driscoll Gang, he absolutely dared not do that. They were pure, unadulterated evil.

Although the Van der Linde Gang members were also robbers, at their core, they were more like a strange, dysfunctional family, with mutual considerations, a peculiar sense of loyalty. Even for the sake of others, for the good of their own, they wouldn't act on the spot, wouldn't descend into senseless violence.

The O'Driscoll Gang was different; it was simply full of truly deranged, unpredictable criminals, driven by pure malice. If he were to venture in alone, he would undoubtedly be killed by Colm on the spot, his life extinguished without a second thought.

So at this desperate stage, they could only compete with brute force, a numbers game they were clearly losing.

It was undeniable that the Pinkerton Detective agency, in its heyday, was not inferior to the United States Army in its sheer power and influence, a formidable private army. But that was no longer the case. Its glory days were long past.

With the advent of the restrictive "Anti-Pinkerton Detective Act," the United States Government had begun to use various legislative channels and subtle tactics to combat and severely restrict the expansion and very survival of Pinkerton Detective.

For example, by establishing the Federal Bureau of Investigation, many senior, experienced Pinkerton Detective agents were subtly lured into the FBI to work, thereby systematically reducing the number and strength of the Pinkerton Detective agency. Or by subtly establishing some private security companies, often funded by the very capitalists Pinkerton served, siphoning off most of the Pinkerton Detective personnel, gradually eroding their power base.

Currently, the vast majority of Pinkerton Detective agents are still confined to West Elizabeth, because they have no law enforcement power in other states and cannot legally accept any work there. By 1907, Pinkerton Detective had completely disappeared from the West, fading into obscurity.

So, for Mr. Milton to be able to gather over 300 Pinkerton Detective agents in West Elizabeth now already indicates his sufficient authority and impressive strength, a testament to his dedication.

But this formidable force was still far from enough. Not against the surging tide of desperate gangs.

Listening to Mr. Milton's grim words, Sheriff Dunbar shook his head, his face etched with a profound, weary despair. He sighed heavily and said, his voice raw, "It's still not enough, Mr. Milton, far from it. The current police force in Blackwater combined with the West Elizabeth defense forces only totals just over 500 people. Adding your Pinkerton Detective agents, it's just over 800 people. This is far from enough, completely insufficient, to contend with those damned, swarming gangs! We'll be overwhelmed!"

He pounded a fist lightly on his desk, his eyes burning with frustration. "And I also heard that the O'Driscoll Gang is now intentionally gathering forces, consolidating their strength, seemingly wanting to launch a full-scale attack on Blackwater. The Van der Linde Gang in New Austin, their numbers swelling, is also restless, wanting to seize the vital mineral resources of West Elizabeth. We are caught in a vise!"

"These damned things," he concluded, his voice a low growl, "we are already completely surrounded by wolves, and we are but a flock of sheep!"

"Quite clearly, yes, Sheriff Dunbar." Mr. Milton sighed, a sound of deep resignation. He supported himself with his elegant cane, leaning heavily on it, his gaze as sharp and piercing as an eagle's, scanning the distant, troubled horizon.

In reality, if the 30,000 able-bodied people in Blackwater could be effectively mobilized, if they could be armed and trained, they could certainly wipe out these damned gangs, or at least beat them back so severely they wouldn't dare approach here again.

But these people simply wouldn't listen, wouldn't cooperate. Who, among the common folk, would be willing to pick up a gun, risk their life, and fight with the savage gang members outside, for no reward?

Mr. Van der Linde's gunmen, Milton mused, were fearless of death because Mr. Van der Linde truly guaranteed that their families would live affluent and carefree lives after their deaths, even with a large, generous pension. There was a tangible incentive, a powerful promise.

However, the Blackwater Police Department had nothing, absolutely nothing, to offer as a promise, no guarantee of future security. In fact, dying while fighting bandits would be a complete waste; not only would there be no pension, no recompense, but their own families would also end up living a life of displacement, suffering, and destitution.

Thinking this way, weighing the bleak prospects, even fewer people would want to fight these ruthless gang members. Their cause was not worth dying for.

So, mobilizing personnel from Blackwater was clearly an impossible task. Even if money were offered, a desperate last resort, to get people to fight, not many would be willing, and their marksmanship, their fighting skills, were even worse; it would be better not to use them at all, to spare the ammunition.

Listening to Mr. Milton's weary sigh, Sheriff Dunbar gave a bitter, humorless laugh, a dry, rasping sound. He shook his head. "Hahaha, what sudden arrival of a powerful force? That's completely impossible, Mr. Milton. Those days are gone. As for the United States Government sending troops, that's even more impossible. Those 20,000 soldiers still need to be stationed near Canada, guarding the border. How could they possibly spare troops to support us? Besides, there's no profit to be gained here, no strategic value for them to invest in!"

Before the Sheriff even finished speaking, before his bleak words had fully faded, the sudden, frantic shouts of his subordinates rang out sharply from outside the door, cutting through the tense silence of the office.

"Sheriff, Mr. Dunbar! You, you come out and see! You have to come out and see!" a breathless voice screamed, laced with raw terror. "That damned wanted criminal, Dutch Van der Linde, he's brought his men and attacked again!!! He's brought a train, a whole train, and attacked again!!!" The voice dissolved into a strangled cry.

"What!!!" Sheriff Dunbar exclaimed, his body jerking violently, his chair scraping back. His hair, thin and sparse, instantly seemed to stand on end, his eyes bulging with profound shock and horror.

"Huh?" Agent Milton turned around abruptly, his head snapping towards the door, his eyes wide with disbelief. A chilling sense of foreboding instantly filled his mind, a cold premonition of disaster.

This damned Dutch Van der Linde, is he taking advantage of the situation to rob (seize) Blackwater? The thought, a terrifying realization, flashed through Milton's mind.

The thoughts in their minds differed by only one crucial word—"rob" versus "seize"—but their subsequent reactions were profoundly, uniquely different, reflecting their very distinct personalities and roles.

"F*** you! Dutch Van der Linde! F*** you!!!" Sheriff Dunbar bellowed, a primal scream of rage and despair, his face instantly turning a mottled red. He grabbed his revolver from the desk with a shaking hand, his knuckles white, and turned to rush outside, propelled by a desperate, suicidal fury.

Damned Dutch Van der Linde, he's not letting him off now! He's coming for everything! Damned, damned!!! Sheriff Dunbar's eyes were bloodshot, bulging with incandescent rage.

Mr. Milton, seeing Dunbar's reckless charge, immediately went up and grabbed his sleeve, his grip firm, anxiously saying, his voice sharp with urgency, "No, no, no! Mr. Dunbar, no! Stop! Dutch Van der Linde is now the Governor of New Hanover and Lemoyne! Damn it, if you kill him, I guarantee you'll end up in a federal jail for the rest of your miserable life!"

"Bang!" Before Mr. Milton could even finish speaking, before his warning could fully register, the solid police station door was suddenly, violently kicked open from outside, splintering with a resounding crash.

Then, what greeted them, paralyzing them with fear, was a massive, dark cannon barrel, its ominous maw aimed directly, menacingly, at Sheriff Dunbar and Mr. Milton inside. It was a weapon of war, not a bandit's tool.

The large, dark muzzle carried the faint, acrid smell of gunpowder, making the faces of the two, oh no, all three of them—Sheriff Dunbar, Mr. Milton, and Mr. Ross—turn a sickening shade of green, their blood running cold.

Then, a familiar, deep, resonant shout echoed triumphantly through the shattered doorway, filling the stunned room.

"Oh ho ho ho, Sheriff, I, Dutch Van der Linde, am back!"

"Thump, thump, thump…" Before the triumphant shout had even faded, the dense, rhythmic sound of approaching footsteps, no longer concealed, began to fill the building, shaking the very foundations.

The police station door was fully opened, revealing the well-oiled machine of Dutch's new army. Then, squads of disciplined gunmen, carrying gleaming rifles and wearing crisp, uniform outfits, quickly and expertly advanced into the building, their movements precise and practiced, immediately disarming everyone inside and methodically guarding all the entrances to the police station, sealing their fate.

With several dark muzzles pointed directly at the heads of Sheriff Dunbar, Mr. Milton, and Mr. Ross, holding them captive, they finally saw a familiar figure walk casually through the police station doorway, a figure they had just seen, grinning mockingly, on a faded wanted poster.

Mr. Dutch Van der Linde, returned and triumphant!