Dutch had promised to secure the lives of these veterans, and he was certainly not joking. As the saying went, his word was his bond. If he were to champion the cause of saving all veterans but then only recruit a select few—those deemed "useful" or "normal"—his carefully constructed, benevolent image would shatter.
Hypocrisy would become his defining epithet, and he would find himself swinging from a lamppost, just another hated capitalist. The very "veteran buff" and "feminist buff" he painstakingly cultivated would not only fail him but would transform into formidable obstacles. Dutch's rise hinged on leveraging these perceptions; they were his foundation, and they could not be compromised.
Moreover, these were the first individuals he was using to amplify his image. At this crucial juncture, Dutch had to maintain an impeccable façade. Even if it meant supporting some of these men for free, he needed to solidify his "Friend of Veterans" persona.
Of course, if any truly deplorable or ill-tempered individuals emerged, Dutch reserved the right to unleash Bill and Mac upon them for a swift, humanitarian culling.
After a long, raucous dispute among the desperate crowd, the ten coveted job openings for veterans were finally filled. Hosea stood behind, meticulously recording their names and home addresses, while Arthur was dispatched to rent a carriage to transport these fortunate souls back to the ranch. Most of the ten veterans selected were older men, those missing a finger or a toe. The cleaning positions didn't demand much physical strength. Younger, more capable individuals were needed for other, more demanding roles, so this particular opportunity was not suited to their age or current physical state. Again, to bolster his reputation, the prestige of this first batch of hires had to be impeccable.
"Clap, clap, clap!" Dutch clapped his hands, cutting through the disappointed murmurs of those who hadn't been chosen. He faced the remaining veterans, his voice clear and resonant. "Alright, gentlemen, do not be disheartened. It matters not if you weren't hired in this initial wave, for our factory is just beginning. As we expand, we will undoubtedly require more hands, and your opportunity will surely come."
He continued, offering a tantalizing glimpse of a grander future. "Additionally, I possess certain connections with the Senator of Saint Denis. Should our numbers swell beyond my factory's capacity, I might even be able to persuade the Senator to secure satisfactory job opportunities for every single one of you." Dutch smiled, his words a powerful reassurance, quashing any nascent resentment among those not initially selected.
There was no other way; human loyalty was a double-edged sword, but for Dutch, any corrupted hearts could simply be eliminated, a far simpler solution. However, today's crowd held no such grievances. There were only about twenty men left in the tavern, and Dutch fully intended to hire every one of them. Having just filtered out the disabled and the elderly, the remaining individuals were all robust, middle-aged or young men—physically sound and battle-hardened, making them ideal for tasks like loading and wagon driving.
"Alright, gentlemen, for the second wave of recruitment, I shall hire every last one of you."
As his words resonated through the room, the crowd erupted in a thunderous cheer! The veterans, moments ago despondent over missing out on the cleaning positions, now burst with unbridled joy. The chance to work in Mr. Dutch's factory was a gift beyond measure!
"Alright, gentlemen, please quiet down," Dutch commanded, his voice firm yet warm. "Before I explain your new duties, I'd like to know: how many of you are expert marksmen?"
Every veteran knew how to handle a gun, and many were highly skilled. In an era devoid of airplanes and tanks, these veterans had survived battlefields either through exceptional marksmanship or uncanny stealth. Whether it was keen aim or a knack for evasion, these were precisely the talents Dutch urgently needed.
At Dutch's question, fifteen men immediately stepped forward. Fourteen of them were younger, around Arthur's age, in their thirties. The last man was closer to Dutch's age, in his forties. Dutch observed the confident fifteen individuals, a deep satisfaction settling over him.
"Alright, gentlemen, allow me to test your marksmanship. Come, let's go outside." The entire group rose, following Dutch in a grand procession towards the desolate plains surrounding Valentine. These men were destitute, none even possessing a horse.
"Arthur, go buy ten horses. We'll need them eventually." Dutch instructed, then stood in the wilderness, ready to gauge the shooting prowess of the fifteen volunteers.
"Bang, bang, bang…" The sharp reports of gunfire and the growing crowd attracted many curious passersby. Upright bottles, used as targets, exploded one after another under the rapid fire of the fifteen men, eliciting gasps and exclamations from the onlookers.
Dutch was exceptionally pleased with the shooting results. In fact, he was beyond satisfied. The rigorous test included not only accuracy, drawing speed, and reloading speed but also challenging moving targets. The fifteen men who had dared to step forward certainly lived up to their boasts.
If one were to categorize them by the marksmanship of the Van der Linde Gang:
Arthur stands in a league of his own, a Western legend. Whether measured by plot, side quests, or overall performance, Arthur is a master marksman among masters, possessing unparalleled speed and accuracy.
The second tier comprises John, Dutch, Davey, and Mac and Micah. These are all master marksmen. John, not yet having received guidance from the old man, hasn't reached Arthur's peak, placing him firmly in this second tier, but still at a formidable level.
The third tier includes the remaining gang members: Bill, Javier, Sean, Charles, Lenny, and others. Their marksmanship is excellent, qualifying them as first-class gunmen. Against them, the O'Driscoll Gang truly had no chance.
The fifteen men who had just been tested and dared to volunteer also possessed considerable skill. Fourteen of them displayed the proficiency of second-class gunmen. While they might seem "trash" to the elite within Dutch's camp, easily suppressed by any of the main gang members, for the average gangs plaguing the West, these men were a significant threat. They could consistently hit seven or eight out of ten shots. In an actual firefight, one of them could easily handle two or three opponents.
Arthur, by contrast, could hit ten out of ten shots, whether the target was moving, flying, or even a distant bird. He could consistently hit ten out of ten. Imagine the speed of a bird in flight; in today's society, hunters wait for birds to perch before shooting. But Arthur could hit birds in full flight, consistently, ten for ten. His precision was simply superhuman, abnormal.
When Dead Eye activated, birds simply moved in slow motion for him. These fourteen men were no match for Arthur. Individually, they could dispatch five gunmen. But Arthur, alone, could take on fifty without breaking a sweat.