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A swift horse, a dark blur against the nascent dawn, burst from the thick embrace of the forest, thundering across the plains towards Valentine. Arthur's heart, a wild drum in his chest, beat an erratic rhythm he couldn't decipher—was it anxiety?
A desperate, rekindled hope? Whatever it was, Mary's letter had ripped open old wounds, stirring emotions he'd long believed buried. He had once convinced himself that he'd finally purged her from his soul. But now, with every pounding hoofbeat, the truth screamed otherwise.
Arthur drove his horse relentlessly, wasting not a single precious second. Mary had been the delicate, yet unbreakable, thread woven through the fabric of his youth, his only brush with a love so pure, so naive. He had resigned himself to a life forever severed from hers, but Dutch's audacious words in the camp had reignited a scorching inferno within his weary heart.
Yet, the phantom image of Mary Linton's husband, a shadow from a life he could never share, rose to meet that fire, dousing it with a chilling spray, leaving him feeling cold to the bone.
"Giddy up!"
The swift horse tore towards a residence nestled discreetly behind Valentine. As the two-story house loomed into view, Arthur felt an uncharacteristic tremor seize him. His hands were slick with sweat, a nervous energy coiling in his gut that no gunfight had ever provoked. Damn it, he cursed inwardly. He'd never been this rattled facing down a firing squad!
It was clear: for all his hardened masculinity, our formidable Arthur was an open book to certain eyes. Like Dutch's. And like… Mary's. In the original tale, Mary's tendency to reappear only when in need had always grated, yet her unwavering tears at Arthur's grave, her heartfelt plea for him to abandon his life and ride away with her during their second encounter—these moments laid bare the raw, undeniable truth: Mary's feelings for Arthur had been genuine, profound.
Now, standing at the entrance of the two-story villa, Arthur paced twice, his boots scuffing the dirt, before steeling himself. He stepped forward, raising a trembling hand to knock. A soft, hesitant rap echoed against the wooden door.
The sound seemed to amplify his unease. He snatched off his hat, clutching it in his hand, and resumed his restless pacing, his visible nervousness a raw, exposed nerve. God, he looked lost.
Footsteps shuffled within, growing closer, then the door creaked open, just a sliver. Arthur instinctively peeked in, only to find himself staring down the cold, unblinking eye of a revolver.
"Who are you?" a woman's voice demanded, sharp and suspicious.
"Oh, excuse me, I'm looking for Mrs. Linton," Arthur stammered, stepping back two paces, his voice laced with an uncharacteristic blend of nervousness and awkwardness.
"One moment!" The woman slammed the door shut.
Less than a minute later, it reopened. This time, it was Mary Linton herself.
"Hello, Arthur." Mary's voice was soft, a ghost of a whisper. She paused, a flicker of surprise in her eyes at the sight of him, then closed the door behind her and stepped out onto the porch.
"Mary!" Arthur blurted, clasping his hands together, raising them slightly in a gesture that was both reserved and deeply vulnerable. He knew it then: he was utterly, irrevocably nervous. His palms were definitely sweating.
"Um, you… where is he?" Arthur, adrift, couldn't find a better way to begin, the clumsy question tumbling out, referring to Mary's husband.
"He died," Mary stated, her voice devoid of emotion, a flat, chilling pronouncement. "A long time ago."
"So, uh, you… you're a widow now? So… so you came to find me?" Arthur's words, a desperate, fumbling inquiry, were heartbreaking to hear, his expression a testament to the raw vulnerability he rarely showed.
Even Dutch and Hosea, hidden in the distance, felt a pang of sorrow for their tormented friend.
"Arthur, oh, Arthur, poor Arthur," Dutch whispered, peeking from behind the wall, mimicking Arthur's tortured expression, a mock-sad grimace on his face. "Driven to silence by that woman!"
"Enough, Dutch." Hosea slapped Dutch's shoulder, a warning in his eyes. "If Arthur sees us gawking, he'll be sulking for weeks. Might even hide and shed a few tears. Let's not make the boy cry, you know how he always tries to put on a strong front."
"Oh, Hosea, you're no angel either," Dutch chuckled, shaking his head. But he turned, walking with Hosea towards the heart of Valentine. Their true purpose today wasn't to spy on Arthur's heartbreaking reunion, but to scour the surrounding landscape for a suitable farm, a massive property that would serve as the clandestine production base for their burgeoning clothing empire.
"Oh, Dutch, can we truly buy a farm and settle down?" Hosea's voice was tinged with doubt as they walked towards the Valentine bank. "Are you certain the Pinkerton Detectives and federal police won't come crashing down on our lives?"
The bank was their primary target for acquiring farms at a low price, a repository of properties repossessed due to mounting debts. Mr. Downs's farm, for instance, might be valued at five hundred dollars, and even John's future Beecher's Hope was worth, at most, seven or eight hundred. But John, lacking legal standing, had seen the bank inflate the price, nearly doubling it. The Van der Linde Gang also lacked legal status, but Dutch had a workaround. His plan was to establish a legitimate front, pushing the gang's women forward as the public faces for purchasing the farms and opening the clothing stores. Dutch and the men would simply be their protectors.
Hearing Hosea's anxious words, Dutch simply shook his head, his expression resolute, unwavering. "Hosea, this time, we won't be on the front lines. Karen, Mary-Beth, and Jenny can take the lead in purchasing the farm and launching the clothing store. I recall Jenny has no criminal record and a clean legal identity; she could prove invaluable in this regard."
He continued, his eyes gleaming with cold calculation. "As for the Pinkerton Detectives, they have no jurisdiction here right now. Even if they find our tracks, they're powerless. And the federal police, Hosea? Those glorified security guards for rich families won't touch us just because we're outlaws, unless we directly provoke one of their patrons."
Dutch's eyes flickered, devoid of any worry. In the game, the Van der Linde Gang had caused absolute mayhem in the early stages, yet even without jurisdiction, the Pinkertons, despite discovering their camp multiple times, remained impotent, able to offer only toothless warnings. This time, they hadn't committed a single robbery, hadn't even stirred up trouble. The Pinkertons would be utterly helpless. And later? Later, once Dutch's arms factory was fully operational, he would fear no violent organization. He would build an empire.