Demon

"Dutch, f*ck you!"

Sheriff Dunbar, the gaunt, weary chief of police in Blackwater, roared with an explosive burst of extreme anger the very moment he saw the imposing figure of Dutch Van der Linde walking casually through the doorway. His face contorted with a mixture of fury and despair.

Sheriff Dunbar was somewhat different from the opportunistic Sheriff Malloy; he was a typical, almost archetypal, good sheriff, a man burdened by an unwavering will to maintain citizen safety and uphold the law, even in the face of overwhelming odds. He was a man of principle.

So, even with a cold, unforgiving gun barrel pointed directly at his head, its dark muzzle a chilling threat, Sheriff Dunbar continued to curse, his voice raw and defiant, showing absolutely no respect to Dutch Van der Linde, the notorious outlaw. He clenched his fists, trembling slightly with rage.

"Oh, ho ho ho, Mr. Oswald Dunbar, this is not how you greet guests, my friend!" Dutch drawled, his voice calm, almost jovial, utterly unconcerned by the torrent of insults. He walked calmly, confidently, into the room, his eyes scanning the police station, Arthur and John close behind him, their boots thudding softly on the wooden floor. Meanwhile, Charles and the others had already begun to fan out across Blackwater, going door-to-door, their voices echoing in the streets, urgently notifying the terrified residents to prepare to board the waiting train.

"You damn wanted criminal, you damn murderous fiend, what kind of guest are you, you monster?!" Sheriff Dunbar exploded again, his face turning a mottled red, a vein throbbing in his temple. His chest heaved with suppressed fury.

The promising development of Blackwater, his city, had been directly, brutally interrupted by this group, and his loyal colleagues had suffered heavy casualties, their blood staining the streets. The only reason he hadn't immediately opened fire, hadn't succumbed to a suicidal act of defiance, was because of the unyielding gun pointed at his very forehead. But even with a gun aimed squarely at him, he couldn't possibly yield to a wanted criminal like Dutch Van der Linde, a man who had brought so much destruction! His principles simply wouldn't allow it.

As Mr. Van der Linde entered the room, exuding an aura of undeniable command, someone among the gunmen immediately stepped forward, their movements efficient, to move the existing chairs, rearranging them quickly. They then placed new chairs, clean and sturdy, behind Mr. Van der Linde and his companions, a silent gesture of deference and power.

Dutch slowly, deliberately, sat down on one of the newly placed chairs, crossing one leg over the other, his posture radiating an effortless authority. His gaze, sharp and assessing, fixed on Mr. Milton and Agent Ross before him, a faint, knowing smile appearing on his lips, a silent challenge.

"Mr. Milton, we meet again." His voice was calm, almost conversational.

"Mr. Van der Linde," Mr. Milton replied, his voice clipped, his jaw tight. He shifted his weight uncomfortably, feeling a sudden, inexplicable restlessness, a gnawing unease.

In Valentine and Saint Denis, Milton reflected, a bitter taste in his mouth, they had absolutely no way to deal with Dutch Van der Linde. They possessed no law enforcement authority in those states, and, infuriatingly, the Van der Linde Gang were not officially wanted criminals there. Their hands were tied.

But here, it was profoundly different. The faded wanted posters for Dutch Van der Linde and his notorious companions were still prominently displayed on the police station walls, staring down at them like accusing eyes. And here, they possessed full law enforcement authority in West Elizabeth. So, logically, they could now legally and justifiably apprehend Dutch Van der Linde, arrest him on the spot.

However, the room full of Dutch's grim-faced gunmen, their rifles held steady, and the menacing black cannon barrels poking through the shattered doorway, aimed directly at them, made him dare not even entertain such a suicidal thought. The sheer power imbalance was overwhelming.

Not arresting them meant these notorious criminals were right in front of him, mocking his authority; arresting them meant they couldn't possibly win, a futile gesture against an overwhelming force. Dutch Van der Linde's status in Blackwater was no different from Colm O'Driscoll's—a force of lawless nature, untouchable by conventional means.

It was rather embarrassing, humiliating even, especially in front of the principled Sheriff Dunbar, who burned with righteous indignation.

And at this moment, Arthur, ever the provocateur, had to make him even more profoundly uncomfortable.

"Milton? Oh, sh*t! How do we see you everywhere, man?" Arthur drawled, his voice laced with a thick layer of sarcasm, shaking his head slowly. He gestured dismissively. "You're like persistent, unwanted ghosts, always lingering!" He turned to Dutch, a mock sigh. "See, Dutch, this is what these Pinkerton Detectives are like; they don't even bother to greet us, Mr. Morgan, with common courtesy!" Arthur pulled out his good, expensive cigar, its wrapper gleaming, then meticulously took one and put it in his mouth, a deliberate show of luxury. He even shook the ornate cigar box right in front of Mr. Milton's eyes, a blatant taunt.

"Look, Mr. Milton," Arthur continued, puffing out a cloud of fragrant smoke, his voice dripping with disdain, "Queen's brand cigars, fine tobacco, cigars only true gentlemen can smoke, refined men like ourselves. Oh, damn it, throw away that horse manure stick in your hand, that damn smell is nauseating, truly offensive to my senses! It reeks of desperation!" He waved his hand dismissively in front of his nose, pulling a face of disgust, while motioning to John. "Marston, quick, get Mr. Milton one of our high-grade cigars! Sh*t! I really can't stand the smell of horse manure floating in this room anymore, it's fouling the air!"

Arthur shook his head, his face full of exaggerated disdain, waving his hand in front of his nose as if physically batting away an offensive odor while motioning impatiently to John, clearly indicating his disgust for the cheap cigar Mr. Milton held.

This damn guy, Arthur, has now evolved to verbally abuse and sarcastically mock anyone he sees, anyone who crosses his path. His wit, once sharp, was now a weapon of pure annoyance.

Now, no one in the gang, not even the toughest men, dares to look Arthur Morgan directly in the eye, or else he'll immediately spout some unbearable, deeply personal sarcastic remarks!

For example, a mere glance at Javier, the flamboyant Mexican, would prompt him to say: "Oh, look, Mr. Dandy from Mexico has come up with something new again today! Another silly outfit, Javier?"

Seeing Bill, the brutish simpleton, would also unfailingly bring a cutting remark: "Oh, Bill, we all know you're an idiot, it's just that no one says it out loud, for decency's sake. But I will."

This guy, Arthur, who now stinks just by looking at him, radiating an aura of sheer annoyance, is truly irritating the entire camp now. He curses everyone, without exception, except for Dutch, his one sacred cow.

Without the debilitating presence of tuberculosis, and with the gang becoming more glorious, more powerful, this guy's inner rebelliousness, his suppressed anarchic spirit, has been completely unleashed. Not having to worry about anything, not facing any immediate threats, has turned him into a pure, unadulterated animal, a verbal terror.

Prompted by Arthur's blatant instruction, John quickly pulled out a pristine box of high-grade cigars from his coat pocket, his movements swift and efficient. He then walked over and, with a slight grimace, shoved it into Mr. Milton's fingers, which were tucked rigidly into his waistband, his face already ashen with barely suppressed fury.

Damn it, John thought, his own face a mask of practiced neutrality, he didn't want to be sarcastically told by Arthur for his inefficiency: 'See, John. That's why I say you're not very smart, you never learn quickly enough.'

John, with an almost comical thoughtfulness, even leaned in and explained to Mr. Milton, his voice low and earnest: "This box of cigars, sir, costs fifty dollars." He intended it as a warning of its value, not a further insult.

Watching this absurd, humiliating spectacle—one acting as the straight man with mock seriousness, the other as the infuriating funny man, Mr. Milton's face turned livid with unadulterated anger. His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and violently throw the expensive cigar clamped between his trembling fingers onto the ground, to stomp on it, to defile it. But he was afraid he couldn't afford to pay for it, afraid of the financial implication, the final insult. He could only grip the cigar box, his face grim with fury, and place it carefully on a nearby table, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached: "Thank you… Mr. Morgan for your generous kindness! But I don't think I'll need it. I really can't get used to cigars tainted with the smell of blood, the stench of your crimes, and I never, never like to use things from common outlaws!" He spat the last word with venom.

"Well, Mr. Milton. That's a shame, isn't it, John?" Arthur said, shaking his head mournfully at John with an exaggerated look of profound regret, his words laced with a cutting sweetness that was worse than any direct insult. "It seems being a dog for capitalists suits these detective gentlemen better, wouldn't you say?" His words, delivered with such calm disdain, almost caused Mr. Milton to erupt on the spot, his control threatening to snap.

Last time Arthur had dared to mock them as capitalist lackeys, it had already made his emotions explode, pushing him to the brink. This time, saying it so openly, in front of so many watchful eyes, it directly pushed him to his absolute breaking point, his face a terrifying mask of incandescent rage.

"Ah, Mr. Morgan, perhaps you need to learn how to speak like a normal, civilized person." Mr. Milton's voice was strained, barely controlled, his words hissing through clenched teeth. The cheap cigar in his hand was crushed, utterly destroyed, his fingers tightening reflexively, and his eyes were red, bloodshot, burning with a dangerous fury. "After all, a true gentleman, a Mr. Morgan, wouldn't say such tasteless, vulgar words!"

Last time Arthur Morgan had dared to say that to him, he wouldn't have been so incandescently angry. Because he knew those words were just impotent rage, the futile insults of a desperate criminal. But now, this was completely a triumphant winner showing off, openly mocking a humiliated loser. How could a proud man like him endure it? It was a humiliation he could not bear.

John said nothing, only silently pulled out a thick wad of crisp ten thousand dollars from his small backpack, the money fanning out, then, with a deliberate motion, placed it directly in front of Mr. Milton, setting it carefully on the table.

"What do you mean, Mr. Marston!" Mr. Milton's eyes narrowed slightly, fixing on the money, the anger in his heart almost uncontrollable, twisting his features.

"Can I hire you?" John's voice was hoarse, rough, not speaking a single extra word, his gaze unwavering, a simple, direct question that cut through the tension.

But it was this audacious offer of ten thousand dollars placed so blatantly before him, these hoarse and concisely delivered words, and John's somewhat simple-minded, guileless appearance, that completely broke Mr. Milton's composure. His rigid self-control shattered.

"No!!!" Milton roared, his voice thick with fury, his hand slamming down on the table, making the money flutter slightly.

"I'm also a capitalist," John muttered, a flicker of genuine confusion, not understanding Milton's fury, thinking his offer was perfectly reasonable.

"I said, NO!!!" Milton roared again, his face purpling, his fists clenched, his body shaking with an almost animalistic rage.

A Pinkerton Detective, a man who had proudly defined himself as a capitalist lackey, a servant of wealth, for the first time in so many years, refused a lucrative deal from a capitalist. This was truly unprecedented, a moment that defied all known logic and corporate loyalty.

"Enough, you two!" Dutch roared, his voice cutting through the escalating tension like a whip. He strode forward, pulling John and Arthur back with firm, decisive hands, physically separating them from the seething Pinkerton agents.

These two damn guys, Dutch fumed inwardly, they were way too out of control now! The gang's astonishing achievements, their string of impossible victories, had clearly given them boundless confidence and an almost reckless courage, making them almost inhuman in their brazenness!

Of course, it was more likely a side effect of not killing or robbing for a while, a temporary lull in their usual violent activities. After all, the Van der Linde Gang didn't particularly enjoy this peaceful, settled life; it made them restless, unhinged.

Looking at the red-faced Mr. Milton, his jaw clenched, and the equally furious Mr. Ross, their expressions tight with humiliation, and the enraged Sheriff Dunbar, his eyes still bloodshot, Dutch's expression finally turned serious, settling into a mask of professional gravity.

"Alright, Mr. Milton and Sheriff Oswald Dunbar. Please allow me to reintroduce myself." Dutch's voice was calm, resonant, his tone shifting to one of formal authority, almost ministerial. "I am Dutch Van der Linde, Governor of New Hanover and concurrently Governor of Lemoyne." He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in, letting the titles resonate.

"I have indeed made some mistakes in the past, and for that, I offer my deepest, most sincere apologies to Blackwater, to its suffering citizens, for the pain I caused." Dutch bowed his head slightly, a solemn, almost performative gesture of contrition. "But I am now making amends for those past errors, seeking to right the wrongs. And coming to Blackwater this time is precisely to atone for my past transgressions, to bring healing."

He spread his hands wide, a gesture of profound empathy. "West Elizabeth is now suffering from a declining populace and rampant, uncontrolled gangs. I, Dutch Van der Linde, see the miserable lives of these people, the terror they endure, and I feel the pain in my heart, a profound sorrow for their plight."

Dutch's voice swelled with righteous indignation, his eyes burning with a messianic zeal. "I have always believed that every American citizen has the undeniable right to pursue a happy, secure life, and those damned gang members, these savage marauders, have cruelly deprived them of their right to exist in peace. This is a heinous crime, utterly intolerable, a stain on this land!"

"If I didn't lack law enforcement and troop deployment authority in West Elizabeth," Dutch continued, his voice resonating with frustration, "I would have led my forces, my righteous army, to completely eradicate all gang members in West Elizabeth long ago! To cleanse this land of their evil! But even without any formal authority, this cannot stop my heartfelt desire to protect the people, to bring order to chaos."

"So, my purpose in coming here this time is simple: to reduce casualties in Blackwater, to save innocent lives." Dutch leaned forward, his voice earnest, almost pleading. "Sheriff Dunbar, according to the information I've gathered recently, those damned gangs, led by the ruthless O'Driscoll Gang, seem to be gathering a large number of members, apparently intending to launch a full-scale assault on Blackwater. A devastating attack is imminent."

Dutch's expression grew grim, his eyes narrowing. "Damn it, I don't know if your limited forces can withstand a gang of that scale, that sheer brutality, but I absolutely cannot tolerate any more civilians dying at the hands of these damned gang members! Their blood will not be on my conscience!"

"So I brought an armored train, equipped for a rapid evacuation, to evacuate all the residents of Blackwater, taking them to the safety of Valentine. Once you achieve complete victory, once the gangs are routed, I will personally transport them back. How does that sound to you, Sheriff? A temporary measure for their safety."

Dutch spoke with an air of profound righteousness, his expression solemn and his voice filled with a powerful, compelling justice. If it weren't for his still-prominent wanted poster hanging on the police station wall, staring down at them with its mocking grin, one might actually believe he was some legitimate, benevolent Governor, a true savior.

Mr. Milton pondered Dutch's words carefully, his brow furrowed in deep thought, weighing the strategic implications. But Sheriff Dunbar didn't believe him at all. He merely scoffed, his face twisting with disgust.

"Impossible! Dutch Van der Linde, I know exactly who you are, you bloodthirsty killer! I would never, never, send the innocent residents of Blackwater into your hands, into the clutches of a wanted criminal!" Dunbar roared, shaking his head violently.

Mr. Milton, however, felt this unconventional method was surprisingly viable, a desperate but perhaps effective solution. He spoke up, his voice measured, overriding Dunbar's protests:

"I think it's possible, Sheriff. Blackwater currently has only about thirty thousand residents left, a dwindling population. A few efficient train trips would be enough to transport them all to safety. This way, when the gangs attack, civilian casualties can be drastically reduced, and crucially, there won't be any mass riots among the panicked populace."

Mr. Milton's biggest fear, his professional nightmare, was uncontrollable riots. The lower class in America during this era wasn't so friendly, so easily managed, as some naive officials believed. Forget about them actively helping to fight against ruthless gang members; it would be a blessing if they didn't seize the opportunity to cause even more trouble, to loot and plunder, when the gang members arrived!

This was actually the most terrifying aspect, the hidden danger. For example, during an earthquake, some people would take the opportunity to rape, rob, and steal, unleashing their worst instincts. In wartime, a large portion of casualties often came from out-of-control local individuals, from opportunistic chaos, not merely enemy soldiers.

So, Dutch and his men taking the people from Blackwater, removing them from the volatile situation, might actually have some unexpected benefits for the battle, minimizing the chaos and collateral damage.

But Sheriff Dunbar didn't believe Mr. Milton's words at all. He angrily said, his voice thick with contempt, "Damn it, he's a wanted man, Mr. Milton! A wanted man, a murderer! He'll kill everyone he takes, he'll massacre them!" He pounded his fist on the desk.

"No! He is the Governor now, Sheriff Dunbar, the legitimate authority of two states! I can testify to that!" Mr. Milton retorted, his voice rising, trying to inject reason into the heated exchange.

"Stop arguing, Sheriff Dunbar, Mr. Milton. It's a waste of breath." Dutch spoke up, his voice calm, decisive, cutting through their argument like a knife. He merely waved a dismissive hand. "In reality, I'm just here to inform you, because our people have already started evacuating the residents of Blackwater, as we speak!"

His statement was delivered with a chilling finality. It was meaningless, utterly meaningless, to debate it further.

Today, whether the people of Blackwater let him, whether they agreed to be evacuated, he would take them. And if they didn't, if they resisted, he would still take them!

The residents of Blackwater, whether they wanted to go or not, had no choice; they had to go!

Anyway, he, Dutch Van der Linde, was absolutely determined to take the people of Blackwater, and nothing would stop him!

While Dutch and his inner circle were conversing, calmly discussing their plans in the police station room, outside, Blackwater was already descending into utter chaos, a maelstrom of forced evacuation.

Charles, his face grim but determined, Flying Eagle, swift and silent, Lenny, his movements precise, Javier, ever efficient, and Sean, boisterous and forceful, with their dedicated teams of gunmen, had systematically taken over various intersections, cordoning off streets. They were forcibly grabbing terrified Blackwater residents, herding them like livestock, and stuffing them onto the waiting train, its whistle already sounding.

The Pinkerton Detectives and the remaining police officers in Blackwater, seeing the cold, deadly armored train, its massive form dominating the street, and the grim Maxim guns aimed directly at them, dared not move an inch, paralyzed by fear and overwhelming force. They watched helplessly as the gang members, Dutch's new army, drove out the terrified residents, grabbing them like little chicks and physically throwing them onto the train, their screams echoing in the wind.

As for the money and valuables within Blackwater, the remnants of its former prosperity, what could be taken was taken, ruthlessly plundered, and what couldn't was simply left behind. Anyway, whenever the O'Driscoll Gang charged into Blackwater, hoping for spoils, Mr. Van der Linde's formidable armored train and his thousands of gunmen, hidden from the public eye, would storm into West Elizabeth, sweeping aside all resistance, forcibly reclaiming everything, leaving nothing for the rivals.

"Faster, faster! Hurry, Granny, you'll be safe with us!" Sean and Lenny each held an old woman by the arm, their grip firm but not unkind, forcibly guiding her onto the train's steps, urging her forward.

"What are you doing?! I'm old, I'm not going! Leave me be!" The old woman clamored, her voice thin and reedy, her face pale and flustered with pure, unadulterated fear, struggling against their grasp.

"You have to go, Granny! Hurry up, Dutch won't let any of you go!" Sean said, his voice gruff but almost earnest, spouting his acquired emotional words to himself, completely oblivious to the old woman's face, which had transformed from initial fear to near despair upon hearing the dreaded name, Dutch.

She trembled, her body shaking uncontrollably, and whispered, her voice barely audible, "Dutch? Child, did you just say… Dutch?"

"Yes, Dutch Van der Linde, my boss's name, the Governor!" Sean nodded, his words full of a new pride, as he continued forcibly dragging the old woman towards the train, oblivious to her terror.

Hearing the full, chilling name from his mouth, the old woman was utterly stunned, her eyes wide with a dawning horror.

"Dutch Van der Linde is back? Blackwater is being attacked again? Those damned police have lost control again?" Her voice was a wail of despair, a broken litany of grievances.

How the hell were they supposed to live like this?!

Dutch had come twice in six months, a repeated nightmare. The first time the police had stubbornly resisted, resulting in bloody chaos, but this second time, they had simply surrendered directly, offering no resistance at all. Staying in Blackwater, trapped in this cycle of fear and abandonment, really was worse than just going with Dutch, joining the devil they knew!

The streets were filled with Dutch Van der Linde Gang members, now a uniformed, efficient army, frantically grabbing people, forcing them onto the train, causing Blackwater to instantly erupt into chaos, a maelstrom of terrified humanity.

Terrified and helpless residents frantically hid wherever they could, scrambling into alleyways, diving into cellars, even though the Van der Linde Gang's gunmen shouted through loudspeakers that they were there to help them, that they were bringing salvation. There was no credibility whatsoever to their words. Despair, thick and suffocating, enveloped the heart of every single Blackwater resident.

Now, if Colm O'Driscoll, the other notorious gang leader, brought his brutal gang members and shouted outside that he was taking everyone away, some people might actually go out voluntarily to surrender or watch the grim show, preferring one devil over another.

But Dutch Van der Linde? This man, this name, was simply too traumatizing for everyone! The memory of the first battle was etched in their minds, a scar on the town's soul.

They didn't even dare to open fire and resist, even with guns clutched tightly in their hands, because they had all witnessed, firsthand, the terrifying, impossible marksmanship of the Dutch Van der Linde Gang members! Their bullets found their mark with chilling precision, and resistance was futile.