Time, a relentless current, flowed ceaselessly onward. In the blink of an eye, two days had melted away since their return from Saint Denis. During that brief, impossible span, Sean had been rescued, and the entire gang had relocated to Hope's Dream Ranch, a sprawling sanctuary nestled between Strawberry and Valentine. These two days felt like an ethereal dream to the gang members, almost too good to be true.
No one could have conceived that the Van der Linde Gang, accustomed to a life of constant migration and outlawry, could transform into settled, normal people in mere days. They simply couldn't fathom that the stability they had so desperately chased was finally, tangibly, within their grasp.
Hope's Dream Ranch itself was immense, encompassing four hundred acres—roughly the size of a university campus, certainly more than sufficient for establishing a burgeoning industrial zone. At the heart of this vast expanse stood a grand ranch house. Though showing its age, its sheer size was enough to comfortably house every single member of the Van der Linde Gang.
"Creak!" The wooden door swung open, and Arthur emerged from his room, blinking in the morning light. As the gang's formidable third-in-command, a boy molded by Dutch and Hosea since childhood, and their undisputed top gun, Arthur's room boasted a prime location: directly beside the main entrance, at the very center of the hall, with double doors allowing immediate exit or direct access to the communal space.
"Unbelievable." Arthur rubbed his hazy, sleep-addled eyes, gazing around the hall, a soft gasp of astonishment escaping him. It was truly unfathomable that he would awaken one day not in a dusty, bug-ridden camp, free from the incessant noise, but instead within a tidy, quiet hall. The sheer normalcy of it left him utterly unaccustomed.
"Hey, Arthur, mornin'." John shuffled out of his room, still in his pajamas, his long hair a disheveled mess. He raised a hand in a lazy greeting. "Unbelievable, ain't it? We actually moved into a house. Abigail was practically singing all night. Woman's got unbelievable energy." John yawned, more straightforward than Arthur, his emotions simpler. After a quick stretch, he ambled to the dining table in the hall, plucked a cigarette from a pack, and lit it.
"Yeah, John, unbelievable," Arthur echoed, his voice thick with emotion, yet brimming with excitement. With such a vast ranch, he was finally, formally, severing ties with the outlaw life. He could write to Mary now, with a newfound confidence that bordered on arrogance.
"Hey, Arthur." Mary-Beth emerged from her room, also in her pajamas, stifling a yawn as she greeted him.
"Mary-Beth." Arthur nodded, a faint smile touching his lips.
As the door to the other prime room in the hall swung open, Dutch, impeccably dressed and radiating vigor, appeared. "Hey, Arthur, how's it feel? To open your eyes and not see a tent?" Dutch accepted a cigarette from John, a wide, triumphant grin stretching across his face. "No smell of horse manure, no mosquito bites, no damn noise, Arthur, John. Our lives are getting better, step by step, aren't they?"
Arthur nodded, a rare lightness in his eyes. "Yes, Dutch. And no Micah's disgusting voice. I genuinely feel like our lives have returned to quiet."
"Heh heh heh, alright, boys," Dutch chuckled, his eyes glinting. "Go wake everyone else up. Our progress cannot halt simply because our lives have changed." Dutch settled onto the living room sofa, crossing his legs, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Arthur and John moved to rouse the others. Before long, the living room bustled with the gang's full complement.
"Oh my goodness, this house is divine! The temperature's perfect, and there's no dampness! This is infinitely better than Horseshoe Overlook!" Karen exclaimed, circling the living room, marveling at its comforts.
"You're right, Karen. Living here, I feel… renewed." Reverend Swanson sighed, a rare moment of sobriety on his face. He had just experienced the only truly peaceful night of sleep he could remember.
"Dutch, oh, Dutch! I don't believe it! I can't even imagine! I was only captured for a little over a month, and you've already bought a house! Oh, this is truly wonderful, ha ha ha ha! Oh, I truly love it here, right, Karen…?" Sean, freshly rescued and having spent but one night here, was already booming, his boisterous shouts echoing through the room, drawing laughter from the assembled gang.
Davey scoffed, eyeing Sean. "Oh, Sean, I heard your voice only lasted about three minutes yesterday, boy. If you're sick, go see a doctor. Don't let it fester!"
"Ha ha ha ha, Sean, my pinky finger's stronger than you!" Mac roared with laughter, making Sean flush with anger and shame.
"Alright, gentlemen, let's not torment our Mr. Sean anymore. He's a grown boy, isn't he, Karen?" Dutch, ever the impartial leader, intervened. Sean, though, still wished he could bolt back and let the bounty hunters drag him to Saint Denis to be hanged.
Seeing everyone's spirits lifted, Dutch raised a hand, his voice cutting through the banter. "Alright, gentlemen, gather 'round. We are about to embark on the next phase of our plan. I consider all of you officially part of this gang, so please, concentrate and listen."
Mr. Trelawny, following Dutch's instructions, had also arrived last night and was housed in a specially cleared room. Trelawny was a scoundrel, yes, a master of trickery and deceit, but he was also exceptionally well-informed. Such a man was invaluable, far more useful than the incommunicative lunkheads who made up much of the gang. Therefore, Trelawny was a crucial piece of Dutch's grand design, his loyalty already proven in the crucible of their past. As for the steadfast Strauss, Dutch intended to place him in charge of the gang's burgeoning finances.
Watching everyone settle, some sitting, some standing, a hush falling over the room, Dutch rose.
"Gentlemen, ladies. The past month has been an agonizing crucible, but that—all of it—is behind us now. I promised all of you a brilliant future, and that future, we shall forge together. The relentless tide of civilization has arrived, and the era of the outlaw is reaching its brutal end. If we cling to our old ways—the burning, the killing, the looting—without change, what awaits us will inevitably be the merciless bullets of so-called justice."
Dutch's gaze swept over their faces, his voice dropping to a low, intense rumble. "So, gentlemen, we are going to change professions! My current plan is to establish a formidable clothing factory, then leverage the profits and connections gained from this factory to secure the usage rights to Guarma. Finally, we will establish our arms base on Guarma, extensively recruit fighters, and sell our weapons overseas. This will ensure our safety is fully guaranteed by the barrel of a gun, so that even if we walk into cities with the bounty of wanted criminals on our heads, those so-called Pinkerton Detectives, those self-important capitalists, and even the damned congressmen, will have no choice but to treat us with the utmost respect!"
His voice rose, a rallying cry. "Gentlemen, ladies, America is a capitalist society. Here, countless sums of money represent immense capital, yes. But similarly, a colossal fist, capable of smashing America with a single blow, is also immense capital. Therefore, we must become that fist, seizing countless sums of money! So, from this moment forward, our enemies will shift—from the overt to the covert, from mere police and Pinkerton Detectives to high-and-mighty rich men, powerful politicians, and even the very congressmen themselves. But crisis and hope coexist, and I believe that under my leadership, we will surely become the most enormous association this nation has ever seen!"