This time around, the Van der Linde Gang had more firepower than in the original timeline. In the game, John had still been recovering from his injuries and hadn't joined the O'Driscoll raid. But now, thanks to Dutch covering the retreat at Blackwater, their escape was smoother—and John never got shot. His wolf bite wounds weren't too deep.
So when Dutch recovered, John was back on his feet too.
And with David and Mike still alive, the gang's strength had more than doubled. The fight ahead wasn't just manageable—it was practically a slaughter.
Just like in the game, the gang scoped out the O'Driscoll camp from the snowy ridge through binoculars. Then they descended in silence, launching a brutal surprise attack.
Under the precise aim of Arthur, David, and Mike—the gang's finest sharpshooters—the O'Driscolls didn't stand a chance. It was a massacre.
When the last shot echoed through the mountains and silence returned to the blood-soaked camp, Dutch gave the signal.
"Clear the field, boys. Take anything worth takin'. The women and children could use the extra nourishment… and our old-timers wouldn't mind a little treat either."
Mounted atop The Count, Dutch directed the group like a general after victory. The gang moved through the wreckage like wolves, stripping the camp bare—food, weapons, ammo, even clothing.
And unlike in the game, this was real life. So yes, they even took the dead men's coats. The corpses were left in their long johns, scattered across the snow like broken dolls.
"Hey Dutch, look what I found!"
Bill marched over, a grin splitting his face as he waved a weathered map. He handed it up to Dutch.
Dutch glanced at it… then tossed it to the ground with a snort.
"It's a map, Bill. Looks like the O'Driscolls were planning to rob Mr. Cornwall's train. Says there's a load of unregistered bonds onboard."
Bill looked stunned. "Then why don't we take it instead? Look, I even found dynamite! We got everything we need!"
Dutch shook his head. A few of the others had gathered, drawn by the scent of a potential job. Dutch looked around at them, smiling faintly.
"No, boys. We're not touching that train."
The group fell silent.
Dutch continued, his tone serious.
"The Pinkertons' jurisdiction in the East has been suspended by Congress. If we stir up trouble now, they'll use it as an excuse to come back stronger—and we'll all be in danger."
He paused.
"And Leviticus Cornwall ain't just some rich stiff. He's an oil baron, a railroad king, a sugar magnate. The man's got hands in every pocket from here to Saint Denis. Going after a few thousand in bonds? It ain't worth the war that follows."
He straightened in the saddle, eyes scanning his crew.
"Not yet, anyway. When we're strong enough—when we're ready—we'll pick our battles. For now? We lie low. Let the snowstorm pass. Then we rise again. Giddy up!"
With the crack of reins and the thunder of hooves, the gang left the ruined O'Driscoll camp behind and returned to Valentine.
On the way, Arthur and David captured Kieran without much effort. And yes—there was a gold bar hidden somewhere in that mountain. But Dutch had bigger things in mind. He wasn't going back for it. Not this time.
---
Two Weeks Later – Valentine
The idea of not robbing Cornwall's train was enough to make anyone in the gang do a double take. Dutch never passed up a chance like that.
But for the past two weeks, he'd barely left his room. No one knew what he was working on.
No one… except Hosea.
"Oh Dutch," Hosea said, stunned, "I didn't know you had this kind of… talent."
He stood over Dutch's desk, jaw slack, staring at the papers spread out like a fan.
Sketches. Dozens of them. Outfits, silhouettes, designs—some elegant, some so revealing Hosea didn't know where to look. The art was drawn with surprising precision.
Dutch puffed calmly on a cigar, reclined in his chair.
The papers were borrowed from Mary-Beth. The girl liked writing novels, and she always kept spare paper. Dutch had claimed a stack and gotten to work.
"You're drawing clothes now?" Hosea blinked. "Are we really settling down? Leaving the outlaw life for… fashion?"
It was absurd. Unbelievable. Hosea knew Dutch better than anyone. Not robbing Cornwall's train had been surprising—but this?
Dutch, the man who once talked of mango trees and Tahiti, was now sketching corsets and coats?
The gang loved the life, even if they sometimes said otherwise. Arthur dreamed of peace, sure—but stick him on a farm for more than a week, and he'd lose his damn mind. Even John had trouble pretending he could do anything else.
They were outlaws through and through. Robbing, fighting, running. It was all they'd ever known. "Stability" was something they talked about when the bullets were flying—but not when the money flowed easy.
It was just human nature.
And yet here Dutch was… drawing dresses.
"Dutch, I ain't tryin' to pour water on your fire," Hosea said, "but you really think we can support the gang selling clothes? What happened to the arms business? Or the moonshine plan?"
Dutch smiled. He exhaled a lazy puff of smoke.
"Hosea, selling clothes is just the door we knock on. It gets us in—into society. Into connections. That's what we need."
"Connections?"
"Moonshine's profitable, sure. But it don't buy influence. It don't make friends in high places. It just makes you a target."
He tapped the sketches with the tip of his cigar.
"But fashion? That's a social game. With the right designs in the right hands, we build more than wealth—we build access. To parties. To elites. To partners. That's how we make our future bulletproof."
Hosea stared. Still baffled.
In the world of guns and smoke, this was the most far-fetched plan Dutch had ever proposed—and somehow, the most convincing.
Dutch grinned, like a man holding a royal flush.
"I told you before, Hosea… I've got a plan."