Exodus

The terrified residents of Blackwater were forced to line up in two grim, silent rows, their shoulders hunched, under the cold, unyielding muzzles of Dutch's guns, boarding the waiting train in a chillingly orderly fashion. Each step was reluctant, heavy with unspoken fear.

Mr. Van der Linde, in a display of what he considered magnanimity, allowed them to take all the valuables that could fit into their pockets, a small concession. But bulky cabinets and large boxes were strictly not permitted, as this would affect the precious number of people who could be crammed inside the train, limiting the exodus.

Charles and Flying Eagle, grim-faced and stoic, stood at the train entrance, their rifles held loosely but ready, overseeing the grim, efficient boarding process. These two strong, honorable men, usually unwavering, felt a profound sense of helplessness for the first time, a deep unease churning in their guts.

This… this, this is somewhat like the past, Charles thought, a bitter taste in his mouth, his eyes sweeping over the forced queue. Ships, Black people, the vast, unforgiving ocean, the lurking sharks… Compared to the current train, the forced queues, and this terrifying, impersonal transportation, it made one feel a bit overwhelmed, a ghostly echo of past injustices.

Even though they knew, deep in their hearts, that they were doing the right thing, that they were saving these people's very lives from the looming gang war, this feeling, this profound, unsettling feeling of coercion, was just too strange, too morally ambiguous for their conscience!

"Ahaha…" a young child's nervous, high-pitched giggle echoed, quickly stifled by a mother's desperate hand.

"Mom, where are we going?" a little voice whimpered, muffled by tears.

"Don't talk, child, we'll be fine, we'll be fine… Ahaha…" a mother whispered frantically, her voice trembling, attempting a forced, brittle laugh that sounded more like a sob, trying to reassure her trembling child.

Suppressed sobs, little choked cries, and panicked, muffled shouts rose intermittently from the crowd, a chilling symphony of despair. These people were being forcibly escorted, herded forward under the relentless, silent aim of dozens of guns.

Running away would only lead them directly to encounter the vicious, starving gang members encircling the town, a fate far worse than the unknown. So no one dared to run away; they could only submit, passively, to being forcibly escorted onto the train, their movements stiff with terror.

Even though Van der Linde's gunmen, their voices strained, repeatedly shouted through megaphones, their words echoing mechanically, saying they would take them to the prosperous Valentine and the grand Saint Denis to live a better life, it had no effect whatsoever. The words seemed hollow, meaningless, against the backdrop of forced relocation.

Children suppressed their frightened cries, their little faces pale, women tightly hugged the children in their arms, their bodies trembling, their eyes brimming with unshed tears as they shuffled forward, a silent, desperate procession, following the line into the dark maw of the train. As for the fathers, their faces etched with weary resignation, they guarded their families in front of them with wary and frightened expressions, their shoulders set, a silent shield.

No matter the country, no matter the era, paternal and maternal love are always the strongest, most selfless, and greatest forms of love; this profound truth will never change (excluding the existence of some true beasts of humanity).

Compared to the openly panicked children and the tear-stricken women, the men, hardened by life, were somewhat calmer and more rational. Their fear was more deeply buried, manifesting as a grim, watchful stillness.

They observed the surrounding gunmen with narrowed eyes, taking in every detail, and scrutinized the process by which they were being escorted; these people indeed seemed to have no immediate, overt ill intent. Their methods were forceful, but not wantonly cruel.

For example, they truly did not rob their wealth, leaving their pockets untouched, and even if they wanted to go home to pack things, they meticulously did not enter the houses themselves, respecting a strange boundary. At the same time, there were no rough actions, no casual brutality; they wouldn't, for instance, savagely hit someone with a gunstock for walking too slowly or severely whip someone for not obeying, for merely hesitating.

They only occasionally fired shots into the sky, sharp, cracking reports that echoed ominously, purely to intimidate some disobedient or terrified people, to keep them moving, but they never truly resorted to physical violence, never aimed at the people themselves.

Of course, most importantly, the powerful Blackwater Police Department and the formidable Pinkerton Detective agency did not manage this matter, did not intervene. They were conspicuously absent, passively observing.

Even Sheriff Dunbar and Mr. Milton, the very men entrusted with their safety, were now standing with a familiar, unsettlingly calm man at the police station entrance, seemingly conversing, their postures relaxed, with no intention whatsoever of taking action, of interfering with the forced exodus.

Charles and Flying Eagle stood at the train entrance, their shoulders slumped slightly, feeling a profound sense of unease, a silent moral conflict. Charles, unable to bear the woman's visible terror, even put down his rifle, leaning it carefully against the train car, and stepped forward, seemingly wanting to help a woman who was holding her whimpering child, her body trembling, and preparing to board the train.

"No! Don't touch me!" The woman shrieked in fright, her eyes wide with terror, recoiling violently when she saw Charles, a tall, imposing figure, seemingly wanting to approach her.

"Oh, okay, okay!" Charles was startled by her raw fear and instinctively recoiled, repeatedly retreating, his hands raised high above his head in a gesture of surrender, his face full of genuine embarrassment, a flush creeping up his dark cheeks.

"Don't be afraid… don't be afraid… I have no ill intentions, I just want to, want to help you!" Flying Eagle, stepping forward, gently pulled Charles back, also tucking his own formidable firearm into its holster, a gesture of peaceful intent.

He, an Indian, had historically harbored no good feelings for these invading Americans, a people who had taken so much. But Mr. Van der Linde's guiding philosophy, his strange, compelling ideology, was the guiding light for his actions now. So he would not harbor ill will towards these common people, as they were, in fact, also the exploited party, victims of a different kind of oppression.

It seemed Charles's gentle, almost timid, retreat, his genuine distress at her fear, unexpectedly soothed the woman's tension and profound fear, causing her to slowly stop her desperate crying and cautiously lower her guard, her eyes still wary but less wild.

Seeing her slight relaxation, Charles finally breathed a profound sigh of relief, his shoulders visibly slumping. Then, with careful movements, he took out a small, ornately decorated box of candy, given to him as a gift by a grateful Saint Denis merchant, from his pocket. He pinched out a few brightly colored pieces and, with a tender touch, placed them gently in the tiny, trembling hand of the little girl, who was clutched tightly in the woman's arms.

"Don't be afraid, little one. And you, ma'am." Charles's voice was soft, reassuring, his words slow and deliberate. "Although we made some mistakes in Blackwater, mistakes that brought great pain, we never laid a hand on any civilians from beginning to end. Our fight was never with you, the people."

He gestured around him, encompassing the disciplined gunmen and the waiting train. "This time, we came, just as we said on our broadcast, to help you move, to transport you to safety, to a better life. We are your rescuers."

"I know you might not understand our actions, you might fear us, but please, please trust us. Dutch has already prepared warm houses and good jobs for you. Even women can earn at least twenty-five dollars a month, a remarkable wage, and male workers, around fifty dollars, with free food and lodging provided. You can…"

Before Charles could finish speaking, before he could fully outline the incredible promises, he was suddenly, abruptly interrupted by the woman holding the little girl. Her previous terrified expression had completely vanished, evaporating like mist, replaced in an instant by an eager, almost predatory look, her eyes shining with a startling, intense avarice.

"What? How much is the salary?!" The question burst from her, sharp and disbelieving.

"Ah?" Charles was startled, genuinely taken aback by the sudden, dramatic shift in her demeanor. He abruptly shifted his gaze from the little girl, who was now cautiously sucking on a candy, to the woman's suddenly intense face, then to the crowd behind her.

The crowd, who had just moments ago been full of worry, apprehension, and silent despair, were now no longer crying, no longer sighing, and no longer afraid. Instead, they all stared intently at him, their faces frozen, their eyes wide, as if looking at pure gold, their gazes shining with an almost unbearable intensity.

"How much is the salary?!" The question, now a collective, eager murmur, rose from the crowd, a rising tide of insatiable curiosity.

The woman, who had just been terrified of Charles approaching, now lunged forward, grabbing his arm with both hands, her grip surprisingly strong, her eyes almost glowing red with fervent expectation.

"At, at least…" Charles stammered, feeling a sudden, immense pressure. He felt a chilling sensation crawling down his spine as his gaze swept over the crowd in front of him, whose eyes grew brighter, more intense, with every word he uttered. He was genuinely scared of their sudden, collective hunger.

"Twenty-five dollars," Charles blurted out, trying to gauge their reaction, his voice a little strained. "Oh, female workers can only get twenty-five dollars! Male workers get more; if they are transport workers or production line workers, they can get fifty dollars."

"How much?!" As soon as he finished speaking, a collective gasp from the crowd almost simultaneously rang out, a loud, startled exhalation that echoed through the streets, startling Charles so much that his dark face even showed a visible hint of fear.

The woman, her grip tightening on his arm, even extended both arms, clutching his arm desperately, her eyes almost literally glowing red with the intensity of her greed and disbelief.

"Women can work too?!" another voice from the crowd shrieked, a woman pushing forward.

"Yes! Yes! Most women can only earn twenty-five dollars because the work is easier. Men can earn fifty dollars. Oh, Madam, you…" Charles felt immense pressure, overwhelmed by their sudden, rabid eagerness, and quickly blurted out the details, trying to answer all their frantic questions.

As Charles spoke, the situation on the scene immediately, completely reversed. The atmosphere shifted from one of fear and forced compliance to one of chaotic, desperate enthusiasm.

The fearful crowd was no longer afraid, their terror instantly replaced by greed and hope. The resisting emotions dissipated entirely, vanishing like smoke. And the reluctant crowd, who had initially been forced to move, had completely changed, transformed into a frenzied mob eager to escape.

The woman picked up her child, her back no longer aching, her legs no longer hurting, powered by an adrenaline-fueled hope, and she desperately squeezed onto the train, pushing others aside.

"Oh, sh*t! Twenty-five dollars salary, women can also get twenty-five dollars salary! Come on! Come on! Baby, quick, quick, quick, follow Mommy onto the train! Le Si Gou (Let's go)!" she shrieked, her voice hoarse with excitement, her face radiating a newfound, almost manic, joy.

"Oh, sh*t! Fifty dollars salary? Go go go! Get on the train, children, get on the train, wife, don't wait, or you won't be able to squeeze on! Hurry!" The man hugged his child tightly and then, with a forceful shove, threw him onto the train, then ran with small, scrambling steps, frantically trying to squeeze forward, pushing against the human tide.

"Oh, child, I've never seen such a high salary in my life!" The old woman, who moments ago had needed assistance, even threw her cane away, discarding it with a triumphant cackle, wanting to climb onto the train by scaling the side of the train car, desperately trying to overtake others on the curve, her old body suddenly imbued with a startling energy.

The crowd was like zombies who had smelled blood, transformed into a frenzied, pushing, shoving mass, frantically fighting their way into the train, desperate to secure their place in this promised land.

The news spread like wildfire, carried by the wind and the shouts, and people on both sides of Blackwater's streets, who were initially being forcibly escorted towards the train, stopped walking abruptly when they heard the astonishing news. Their reluctant shuffles turned into a full-blown sprint, because they started running directly, their movements chaotic and desperate. The escorting gunmen, taken by surprise, couldn't possibly keep up with the sheer speed of this suddenly frenzied crowd.

The streets were filled with people running frantically, a stampede of humanity, and others shouting wildly in the streets, their voices hoarse, trying desperately to notify their still-ignorant families of the miraculous news.

"Oh, Finley! Run faster! Mr. Van der Linde is giving men fifty dollars a month, if you don't hurry, there won't be any space on this train, you'll be left behind!"

"Come, baby! Put down your trash, damn it, run, run, run! You must catch this train, it's our only hope!"

People who were slowly packing at home, trying to delay time, procrastinating, instantly became anxious, their faces contorted with fear, when they heard the astonishing news reverberating in the street. They abandoned their meager belongings, leaving them scattered, and ran out the door in a frenzy. Some even, in their desperate haste, jumped directly from second-story windows, disregarding their foot pain, tumbling to the ground, and ran like mad towards the train, a single-minded goal.

They had all seen this train; at most, it could only carry about four thousand people per trip. If they ran too slowly, if they hesitated, they might end up with no house or job in this promised land!

This won't do, oh, this won't do! The thought screamed in their minds. This is simply an opportunity to change their class, to escape their endless poverty! It's a chance for a new life!

Who said Mr. Van der Linde was no good? they wondered, their minds transformed. Mr. Van der Linde is absolutely amazing! He's a true savior!

A group of people, now an utterly chaotic mob, ran frantically towards the Blackwater train station; their movements were so wild, so uncontrolled, that the Van der Linde Gang's gunmen, who had initiated the forced evacuation, had to come out and actively maintain order, shouting commands, just to ensure no one would be crushed to death inside the train, trampled by the sheer, desperate rush.

The previously forcibly queued crowd was now anxious, their patience vanished, and some even directly asked Charles, who was standing dumbfounded nearby, utterly flabbergasted by the sudden, overwhelming enthusiasm.

"Hey, buddy, does Mr. Van der Linde recruit gunmen? I'm a hunter, and I'm pretty good at it, very handy with a rifle!" a man shouted, pushing forward, his eyes eager.

Charles snapped back to reality, his mouth slightly agape, and quickly nodded, saying, his voice a little strained, "Of course we do. Our Van der Linde Gang's gunmen earn high salaries, the best. As long as you pass the assessment, the minimum monthly pay is one hundred dollars."

"Oh, sh*t!!!" As soon as his words fell, a collective, thunderous chorus of expletives, curses mixed with shouts of sheer disbelief and joy, erupted from the crowd, a tidal wave of sound.

"Sh*t! One hundred dollars a month?! Damn it, I don't even earn that much hunting for a whole year, busting my ass!"

"Oh, no! My marksmanship is good, my marksmanship is good, Mr. Van der Linde! Please choose me!" a man pleaded, raising his hands, practically begging.

"Bullsh*t, my marksmanship is the best, Mr. Van der Linde, let me be a gunman! I'm invincible, I love going to battle, sacrificing myself for you is my destiny, my purpose!" another roared, flexing his arms.

The clamor of the crowd grew even louder, a deafening cacophony of desperate pleas and boasts, allowing the few remaining Pinkerton Detectives and officers patrolling Blackwater to clearly hear the content of their conversation, the raw, unfiltered desire for Dutch's patronage.

Mr. Milton, who was standing at the police station entrance, grimly talking to Mr. Van der Linde, had just picked up his poor-quality, acrid-smelling cigar again, trying to derive some small comfort from its fumes, when a Pinkerton Agent, a young man, walked up to him, his face full of an almost palpable shame, his eyes downcast.

"Hmm? Is there something you need, Agent?" Mr. Milton frowned deeply, his eyes narrowed, anticipating trouble. He lit the poor-quality cigar in his hand, and the acrid smell, a bitter taste in his mouth, made his eyes sting slightly, forcing his gaze towards Arthur Morgan, who was standing nearby, still calmly puffing on his own expensive cigar.

Arthur's cigar, large and substantial, was shiny and substantial, its rich, inviting aroma emanating from it, making the poor-quality cigar in Milton's own hand smell increasingly unpleasant, like stale horse manure, making him feel more and more uncomfortable, more and more resentful inside.

Seemingly sensing Mr. Milton's intense gaze, Arthur frowned and looked over, his eyes sharp. Then he sniffed audibly and deliberately fanned his hand in front of his face, as if he had been choked by some unpleasant smell, a subtle but deeply insulting gesture.

Mr. Milton's face instantly turned ashen, a mottled grey with suppressed fury, and he crushed the poor cigar in his hand directly, grinding it to fragments.

But the Agent standing in front of him, oblivious to Milton's inner turmoil, simply blurted out, his face still full of shame, "Mr. Milton, I… I… I quit! I'm leaving!"

"Why? What's happened?" Mr. Milton's brows furrowed deeply in confusion, his voice tight. He threw the cigar fragments in his hand onto the ground, stamping them with his foot.

"I want to be a gunman under Mr. Van der Linde!" As if having finally spoken his true mind, having released a heavy burden, the Agent no longer held back and spoke directly, his voice firm, resolute.

The shame on his face had completely vanished; once he said it, once he committed to his decision, he felt no shame whatsoever, only a liberating relief.

Anyway, he reasoned, he was going to be a gunman for Mr. Van der Linde; even if he couldn't pass the assessment and be a gunman, being a laborer would be perfectly fine. At least it was much better than earning a pitiful less than twenty dollars a month following Mr. Milton, risking his life for meager pay. Although catching criminals brought extra, sporadic income, it was impossible to earn one hundred dollars a month, and even fifty dollars was difficult, a struggle.

Risking life for low wages, risking life for high wages, or earning a stable moderate wage—who wouldn't know which is better, which path leads to prosperity and security? It was a simple calculation.

Their relationship with Agent Milton was merely a cooperative one, a transactional work relationship, nothing more. Of course, they would jump ship directly when they saw higher wages, when a better opportunity presented itself; that's a normal, rational reaction in this cutthroat world!

Listening to the Agent's blunt words and seeing the raw eagerness shining on his face, Mr. Milton took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling a profound sense of sorrow, akin to a tragic hero in decline, watching his empire crumble.

The once unrivaled Pinkerton Detectives, once known proudly as America's second army, a force that struck fear into the hearts of criminals, now had their own people switching sides on the spot, abandoning their loyalty for higher wages!

This… feeling the gritty crumbs of the poor-quality cigar still in his palm, Mr. Milton nodded, his head drooping slightly, his face etched with extreme sorrow, and with a slight, resigned wave of his hand, he said, his voice barely a whisper, utterly devoid of spirit, "Alright, Jimmy, you may go! Good luck."

These words, this concession, almost completely drained all of Mr. Milton's spirit; he completely despaired of the Pinkerton Detectives' future, seeing its inevitable, swift collapse.

He turned around, his back to everyone, his shoulders hunched, feeling utterly powerless, a defeated man.

He had personally witnessed the meteoric rise, the glorious prosperity, the triumphant peak, and now the undeniable, rapid decline of Pinkerton, and this immediate, blatant defection of a loyal gunman was the final, crushing blow. The last straw.

He felt that all his persistence, all his years of dedicated service, seemed utterly meaningless; the unstoppable tide of the era would eventually crush everything beneath its relentless wheels, sweeping away the old order.

To this day, he had never seen any person or force escape the relentless curse of the era, the march of progress, only Dutch Van der Linde had become that impossible, eternal exception, riding the wave of change!

While Mr. Milton was facing the wall, his back rigid, feeling a profound melancholic despair, another distinct rustling sound came from behind him, a growing murmur, a shifting of feet.

A slight, chilling doubt arose in his heart, a cold premonition, and he turned around abruptly, startled by the dense, silent crowd that had gathered around him at some point, their forms looming in his periphery.

"Mr. Milton, we're quitting too!"

Over three hundred Pinkerton Detectives, a formidable force, stood before him, in neat groups, speaking in unison, their voices a chilling, collective declaration. They looked at Mr. Milton, showing no shame whatsoever for their betrayal, no flicker of remorse, only deep, fervent hope for a bright, lucrative future.

Serving Mr. Van der Linde, they declared, was their lifelong pursuit!

Mr. Milton instantly aged by more than a decade—oh no, he should have become twenty years younger, shedding the burden of his high rank and responsibility. From the Pinkerton Detectives' current foremost hardliner, a man of unwavering principle, he instantly transformed back into the ordinary junior Agent of twenty years ago: Andrew Milton, stripped of his authority, reduced to his beginnings.

"You… you…" Mr. Milton's face instantly turned pale, a deathly white, his mind completely blank, reeling from the shock, feeling as if he couldn't even stand steady, his legs threatening to give way.

They left, they all left, it's good they left, it's good! He repeated the words to himself, trying to find some solace, some logic in the utter chaos.

Andrew Milton, the proud Pinkerton, for the very first time, experienced that unique, profound feeling of unexpected, terrifying 'growth' belonging to the now-humiliated Signor Bronte, a twisted mirroring of fates.

Perhaps, he thought, a bitter, ironic smile touching his lips, this is what it truly means to return to youth! To be stripped bare, reborn in humiliation.