Dutch waved his hand decisively. "No guns," he said.
It wasn't a suggestion—it was law. Everyone remembered Rhodes, back in Chapter 3. When Dutch banned firearms there, even the player couldn't draw a weapon. His authority was absolute then. Now, it was gospel.
The gang responded instantly. The ladies cheered, their joy loud and unabashed.
"Oh yeah! Dutch, I love you!" Karen shouted, wrapping her arms around a surprised Jenny.
Mary-Beth grinned. The ban meant fewer skirmishes, fewer burials, and maybe—just maybe—a few extra dollars to spend on books.
The women in camp rarely saw the same profits as those who rode on jobs. Their shares were modest, barely enough to save a hundred dollars without months of thrift. But today felt different.
Dutch straightened his hat, nodded, and turned to the three men beside him.
"Let's ride."
With a clatter of hooves, the four riders—Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, and David—emerged from the wooded ridge of Horseshoe Overlook, heading toward the livestock town of Valentine.
As they rode, Hosea naturally took his place beside Dutch. Arthur and David fell behind. It was unspoken, but deliberate: respect was shown in the positioning of the ride. Once, Arthur had been by Dutch's side. In time, Mac would take that spot. Today, it was Hosea.
Dutch chuckled. "I hope your month of rest hasn't softened you, old friend."
Hosea laughed back. "So long as the gang's standing, I'll be upright too. But Dutch—do you really think a clothing store will hold us up? These townsfolk aren't going to welcome us with open arms. We're cutting into someone's profit."
Dutch's eyes gleamed. "That's why we tie it to something bigger. Women's rights. If our store stands behind their cause, we gain legitimacy and protection. They won't raid what's endorsed by the ladies of Saint Denis."
He leaned in, voice low but intense. "But if they try us, we'll show our teeth. The East might tremble if we unite. Still, no bloodshed if we can help it. Pinkertons are eager for excuses. A massacre hands them one."
Dutch tilted his head toward Hosea. "We use their civility. Until we're strong enough to bury it."
They crested a hill. Valentine stretched out before them, far larger in scale than its in-game counterpart. The real Valentine was bustling, chaotic, alive. Farms sprawled across the land like patchwork. Cattle roamed in fields the size of Saint Denis itself.
Most of the American West remained untamed. Land was cheap—claimable, even. Enclose a field, and it was yours. Valentine thrived in this space. A livestock capital, yes, but also a hive of laborers, traders, and survivors clinging to routine.
The four riders entered town an hour later. It stank of sweat, manure, and desperation. Buildings clustered tightly, people moved with purpose, but few looked well-fed.
While the East climbed steel towers, the West wallowed in mud.
Violence still lingered. Dutch's gang, once infamous, was now quieter—but only just. And in their wake, the American Mafia had begun to rise, filling the void. Capital demanded its enforcers.
Yet Dutch still held his place at the top. For now, the Van der Linde Gang remained here. And if he'd chosen a different path—if he'd settled instead of roaming—who knows how far they could've climbed.
But Dutch preferred the trail.
Valentine's economy lived and died on livestock. Outside the farms, work was meager: hauling goods, fixing fences, barbacking in saloons.
For women, it was worse.
Prostitutes lined the saloons. Others worked in kitchens, washing dishes or drawing baths—jobs men wouldn't take. Public-facing roles were rare, if not impossible. Respect came not from charity but from necessity. Only when labor became scarce did women gain a foothold.
Even the movement for women's rights had been shaped by unseen hands, tools for someone's broader plan.
Dutch watched the saloon doors swing open. A few women leaned lazily on the porch railing, makeup thick, eyes dull.
He raised his riding crop and pointed. "Hosea, look at them. They survive—not live—for the sake of their children. If we offered dignity, purpose, a real wage... what do you think they'd become?"
Hosea followed his gaze. The conviction on his face was unshakable.
"Dutch... if you do this, they'll worship you. You'll be their messiah."
Dutch said nothing, but his smile said it all.
The revolution wasn't in guns or robberies anymore.
It was in stitching seams and changing lives.