Arthur's vanishing act barely registered with the gang. He was, after all, one of the triumvirate, the one who hunted information, brought in the coin, and wrangled the impossible missions. A three to five-day absence was simply the rhythm of their new, unsettlingly legitimate existence.
At Hope Ranch, Dutch and Hosea watched, a quiet satisfaction settling over them, as the newly recruited men heaved crates of fresh garments onto waiting carts. These were the fruits of two days' relentless labor: a hundred sewing machine operators, fifty dedicated assistants, a well-oiled machine churning out fifty pieces of clothing per batch. The seventeen trailblazing women who'd prepped the production steps had ensured seamless, lightning-fast work. Every new style, though in limited quantities—barely twenty of each type—had now been brought to life.
Just as the low hum of the factory filled the air, a roar erupted from behind them.
"Oh, Dutch, we're back!" Mac bellowed, waving an arm wildly, his eyes sweeping over the transformed ranch, finally settling on the busy loading bay.
"Shit! We've been gone less than two weeks, and this place... it's a goddamn metropolis!" Mac exclaimed, his gaze fixed on the factory, where women moved with an almost frenzied, vibrant energy.
Javier, his jaw hanging open, followed close behind. "Dutch! Is this... is this even our gang anymore?"
"Hoo hoo hoo, Mac, Javier, you two returned just in time, my boys. Look around you. This factory, this is the change I promised." Dutch's voice was a low purr of triumph.
"SHIT! This isn't just a change, it's a goddamn miracle! A gang! Us! No more robbing, just… business? This is beyond belief!" Mac gawked, his eyes tracing the bustling lines of female workers.
Hosea, a knowing smile playing on his lips, interjected. "It's hard to believe we no longer just rob, isn't it? As hard as it is to believe we're aiding the poor, helping the unfortunate. Who would ever believe a gang of outlaws capable of such deeds? Mac, this is Dutch's genius, his magnetism. This is why we all follow him, isn't it?"
"Yes! Yes, it is!" Mac muttered, lost in a daze, his eyes locked on the thriving factory. He and David had joined the Van der Linde Gang for this very reason: the primal sense of belonging, a home where deceit and betrayal held no sway, where every soul, no matter how tarnished—thief, whore, outlaw—was family. They gravitated to Dutch, for only Dutch could conjure such impossible dreams.
"Alright, Mac, get some rest, gentlemen. Later, these clothes will need escorting. Stay put unless there's an emergency. Also, have John alert Trelawny. Tell him to get those clothing tags and membership cards made according to the templates I gave him. We'll be needing them." Dutch's smile was sharp, his eyes glinting with ambition as he addressed Mac and Javier.
"Understood, Dutch!" Mac and Javier nodded, already striding eagerly towards the houses. They'd only had a couple of days in their new quarters before Dutch sent them off to Vulture Ranch. Now, the thrill of a new home, and the sight of their long-unseen family, ignited a genuine warmth in their chests.
Hosea, watching them disappear into the house, chuckled. "Arthur went out?"
"He did." Dutch shook his head, a feigned helplessness in his voice. "Don't know what that boy does all day. We don't need to rob anymore, no need for his daily charade." He was, of course, referencing Arthur's own journal entry in the game: Everyone in the gang is very busy, so I can only go out every day and pretend to be busy. "That little bastard, he's been putting on airs since he was a kid."
"Hahahaha, Dutch, you can't say that!" Hosea roared with laughter, already heading towards the wooden house. "That child's sensitive! He cares about his reputation! If he heard you say that, he'd be crying himself to sleep again!"
"Hoo hoo hoo, Hosea, you're not sparing him either!" Dutch followed, a grin spreading across his face.
The Van der Linde Gang was now a well-oiled machine, finally on track. But with that came a new problem: the gang members themselves had nothing to do. The recruited workers handled everything.
Dutch stood under the eaves of the wooden house, lit a fresh cigar, and took a long, contemplative drag, his gaze sweeping over the ranch. Twenty gunmen patrolled relentlessly. The bunkers were complete, waiting for the concrete to cure. The five Maxim machine guns looked menacing, and the cannon perched atop Dutch's own house sent a chill down the spine just by its mere presence.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Dutch!" Two on-duty gunmen saluted as they passed.
"You too, gentlemen! How was your meal today?"
"Oh, the meal was excellent today, Mr. Dutch, thank you for your generosity!"
Dutch waved a hand, his smile unwavering, as they continued their patrol. Outwardly kingly, inwardly saintly—this was Dutch's new creed. Even the smallest misstep could incite lethal resentment; history was rife with such examples. He would avoid that mistake.
As Dutch absorbed the scene, the door behind him creaked open, and little Jack toddled out, clutching a small toy.
"Uncle Dutch, have you seen my fishing rod? The one Uncle Hosea made for me?" Jack looked up, his eyes wide with innocent curiosity.
"A fishing rod? Haven't seen one, child. But I did see a cigar. Is this your cigar, child?" Dutch chuckled, pulling a fine cigar from his vest pocket and holding it out.
"Oh, Dutch! He's just a child!" Abigail stormed out, scooping up an overly curious Jack.
"Haha, Abigail, I—Shit!" Dutch's retort died on his lips. His gaze, once fixed on Abigail and Jack, snapped to the distant horizon, his eyes widening in immense surprise. Two figures on horseback, growing steadily larger.
"SHIT! Is that Arthur? Is that Mary Linton? Oh, God! Hosea! Hosea! Get out here! Arthur brought Mrs. Linton back! That boy! I knew he still had it in him!" Dutch roared, his voice thick with a mix of disbelief and wild, unbridled exhilaration, waving his arms at the approaching riders, shouting for Hosea to witness the impossible.