Time, had reshaped the Van der Linde Gang. No longer mere outlaws, they were a burgeoning force. The grim training grounds at Vulture Ranch, forged under Mac's harsh eye, now stood complete. Mr. Trelawny, nestled in the shadows of Valentine's Veteran Club, had begun his quiet work, sifting through the dregs of society for gunmen and sharpshooters, though progress remained agonizingly slow.
Then, the materials arrived. Dorothea's haul for Dutch, delivered by train from Saint Denis, was astonishingly cheap, the transport costs inexplicably waived. The whispers of power, once faint, now solidified into a tangible presence.
The factory at Hope Ranch roared to life.
The relentless symphony of sewing machines echoed through the five massive wooden sheds, a rhythmic pulse of industry. Inside, a hive of women, their figures blurring with frantic motion, worked under the pale light, each stitch a testament to their newfound purpose.
"By God, Dutch, look at this! A factory... our factory!" Hosea's voice, usually so composed, was thick with disbelief, his gaze sweeping over the bustling scene. "Old friend, I never dared to dream of such a day."
Dutch merely smiled, exhaling a plume of cigar smoke that vanished into the crisp morning air. "Hosea, you'll witness far more impossible things. Wait until our arms factory spits out its first weapon. Then, I reckon, even a Pinkerton bastard will have to bow to you."
Hosea threw back his head and laughed, a genuine, booming sound that carried across the ranch. "Ha! I believe that day will come, Dutch! I truly believe it!" Joy radiated from him, a deep contentment at seeing their family, their gang, clawing its way back from the precipice, no longer dancing on the edge of death.
Dutch's gaze drifted towards the ranch entrance. A dozen men, sweat-slicked and grim, toiled in the dirt, mixing cement, the foundations of something formidable taking shape.
On a wagon, five Maxim machine guns lay, their cold steel glinting, an immense, brutal promise of annihilation. Even the second floor of their main house, the very heart of their operations, had been converted into a fortified platform, a cannon already mounted, its dark maw aimed at any fool who dared approach.
America's gun laws were a joke, a phantom concept in a land teeming with desperate Indians, vagrants, and criminals. Arms dealers thrived—Bronte in Saint Denis, the Lemoyne Raiders, the Howling Wolf Gang—all peddling death. And with the nation embroiled in conflicts both foreign and domestic, acquiring weapons was disturbingly easy. Yet, these Maxims and the cannon had bled Dutch's coffers dry: a staggering three thousand dollars. A fortune, but a necessary investment in their survival.
Around the entire ranch perimeter, twenty gunmen stood like silent statues, weapons clutched tight, their eyes scanning the horizon. Another twenty rotated, a vigilant cycle ensuring the ranch remained impregnable. Once those five bunkers rose from the earth, and the Maxims were mounted, this ranch would become a true fortress, a death trap for any gang foolish enough to challenge them. They would be shredded by a hail of lead.
Dutch and Hosea chatted, their conversation a counterpoint to the factory's hum, when Arthur emerged from the main house.
"Going out, Arthur?" Mary-Beth, strolling in from outside, offered a warm smile.
Arthur cleared his throat, a flicker of discomfort in his eyes. He glanced at the book in her hand, seizing on the distraction. "You were buying books, Mary-Beth?"
"Yes, Arthur! Dutch gave us a hundred dollars each for spending! We just went shopping!" Mary-Beth beamed, holding up her new purchase.
Arthur chuckled, a strained sound, rubbing his nose again, a tell-tale sign of his unease. "Right. Well, I'm heading out too." He offered a quick, almost guilty farewell.
Abigail, leading a sleepy little Jack, watched Arthur's retreating back, a furrow in her brow. "What's wrong with Arthur? He seems… off."
"I don't know," Mary-Beth mused, shaking her head as she headed indoors. "Maybe he just has business outside."
Abigail's gaze lingered on Arthur's diminishing figure as he rode away, then she turned, a familiar exasperation in her voice. "John Marston! Can you please act like a father for once! Jack—"
The cacophony of the ranch faded with distance, swallowed by the vast plains. Arthur, astride his horse, felt an almost uncontrollable surge of emotion, a desperate urge to throw back his head and cheer, to leap from his saddle and run. The wind lashed at his face, a raw caress, fueling the fire in his chest.
His thoughts spun, a frantic cyclone in his mind.
'I am the luckiest damn fool alive. And yet… this woman, she drives me mad. No one else has ever twisted me in such knots.
I swore I wouldn't fall again, but here I am, tumbling head over heels, a damned fool once more.'
The steed galloped, its hooves beating a furious rhythm against the earth, mirroring the frantic pulse in Arthur's own heart. He had never felt so utterly powerless, so utterly consumed, yet so impossibly alive.
He anticipated. He dreaded. He hesitated. He wavered.
But then, the image of her walking towards him, an unstoppable force, burned through his mind. And he knew, with a terrifying clarity, that no matter what, he would never, could never, refuse her.
"Hyah!"
"Good girl!"
With Arthur's urgent cry, the horse surged forward, a white-maned phantom tearing across the land. A knight, desperate and reckless, hurtling towards his princess, his destiny, his beautiful undoing.