For an entire day, Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, and Davey moved through Valentine with the precision of seasoned predators. Their objective stretched far beyond simple observation; they were dissecting the very arteries of the town's economy. They scrutinized not only the burgeoning clothing industry but also the raw pulse of the wool and leather markets. As a quintessential livestock town, Valentine's lifeblood flowed through these very commodities—the same essential materials Dutch sought for his burgeoning clothing enterprise. Valentine and his vision were, in essence, a perfect, brutal match.
But Dutch's ambition soared beyond a mere clothing store. He envisioned a garment factory, a sprawling enterprise that would elevate him to a baron of the industry. This was his conduit to amass the initial capital—the war chest for firearms and equipment.
Simultaneously, this factory would serve a dual purpose: providing desperately needed jobs for veterans and women, thereby firmly aligning him with the burgeoning women's rights movement.
As dusk bled into a bruised twilight, Valentine's pulse remained stubbornly vibrant. The Valentine Tavern, in particular, roared with life, a magnet for Western bosses seeking deals and the solace of its service ladies. Yet, beyond the town's flickering lights, the landscape bled into stark, unforgiving desolation.
Uneven dirt slopes stretched endlessly, draped in wild weeds, home only to untamed horses that shrieked and bolted as Dutch and his men rode by, their thunderous hooves stirring the silent, primeval night.
"Damn Mac" Davey grumbled from behind Dutch, his voice a low growl to Arthur beside him. "He went straight for the whores at the tavern and didn't even bother to call me! Just wait until I get back. I'll settle with him then." Had it not been for Dutch's explicit orders, Davey would already be deep in "discussion" with those unfortunate women.
The night was a canvas of deep shadows, yet the vast plain ahead was not entirely consumed by darkness. The moon hung, an impossibly bright orb, its brilliance unobstructed by the industrial blight that had yet to defile these pristine Western territories.
"Hahaha, Davey, be careful you don't catch the clap. I won't be fetching you any medicine then… Oh, SHIT!" Arthur's laughter died on his lips, swallowed by a raw curse that tore from his throat.
"Ah, Arthur, David," Dutch's voice, calm and laced with a grim amusement, cut through the sudden tension. His eyes, keen even in the gloom, had already spotted them—a handful of horseback figures, oil lamps flickering like malevolent eyes on the distant hillside. "Our old friends, the O'Driscoll Gang, have arrived. Give them a warm welcome, won't you?"
Before the words had fully left his mouth, Dutch's hand flashed, drawing his pistol. A single, deafening shot cracked through the night, and the leading O'Driscoll crumpled from his saddle, dead before he hit the ground.
"Kids, Hosea and I will head back to camp. He's an old man, needs his rest. Can't be partaking in such intense gunfights. You two clean up this mess. I don't want our arrival to spread a terrifying atmosphere throughout Valentine."
Dutch gave a curt wave to Arthur and Davey, then, with another expertly placed shot that dropped an approaching O'Driscoll, he signaled Hosea. They spurred their horses, galloping hard back towards the safety of the camp.
"Alright, Dutch!" Arthur and Davey roared in unison, their voices swallowed by the rising crescendo of gunfire that erupted across the desolate Gobi.
In the brutal Wild West, a true gunslinger could indeed empty a six-shooter in a single second, every shot finding its mark. Such lethal precision was exceedingly rare, a dark art mastered by only a select few. Yet, within the elite ranks of the Van der Linde Gang, these sharpshooters were not a rarity; they were the norm.
One needed only consider the fact that even an imbecile like Bill Williamson could rise to become a gang leader to grasp the sheer, explosive combat power Dutch's outfit possessed. The infamous Blackwater massacre was not merely a battle; it was an annihilation that set Blackwater's development back by two decades and directly spurred a ban on firearms. This devastation was wrought against a combined force of official law enforcement and Pinkerton Detectives, a testament to the terrifying efficacy of true sharpshooters in those unforgiving years.
The dozen or so O'Driscoll gang members were dispatched with grim efficiency, a swift, brutal ballet of violence executed flawlessly by Arthur and Davey. They dragged the lifeless bodies into the wild, finding a secluded spot to bury their grim work, before turning their horses back towards the camp. Dutch still had tasks to delegate, and everyone was expected to gather by 8 AM sharp.
Neither Arthur nor Davey entertained the thought of returning to Valentine Tavern for fleeting pleasures. Mac and the others, though they had indulged, would be forced to return in the dead of night anyway. It simply wasn't worth it.
Meanwhile, Dutch and Hosea had already reached the camp.
"Oh, Dutch, you're back!" Jenny, a beacon of innocent joy, darted towards Dutch's horse, eager to take the reins, chattering excitedly about the day's good finds. She adored Dutch, who had saved her twice: first, by taking her in from a life of wandering or the cold embrace of a convent; second, by shielding her from a bullet, half-dead himself. To her, Dutch was a father figure, a protector.
"Ah, Jenny, my child," Dutch smiled, letting her innocent kiss land on his cheek. "Seeing you is like seeing a fresh flower touched by morning dew."
Hosea dismounted with a tired but content smile, securing his horse before walking into the heart of the camp, Dutch at his heels.
"Dutch, have you decided our next move? Should we buy a farm, or…?"
"No, Hosea, there's no rush for a farm," Dutch interjected, his mind already racing. "We'll wait for Mr. Trelawny. He'll handle that. He always knows so many people, the channels we need. He's our man."
As Dutch and Hosea spoke, they moved deeper into the camp. Though the decision to enter the clothing industry hadn't been formally announced, the camp's inhabitants were already buzzing. Dutch's recent movements hadn't gone unnoticed. The topic was the air they breathed, especially among the women, whose chattering laughter carried on the breeze.
A clothing store! This wasn't merely a place for the garments women loved; it was a promise. It represented the long-awaited news that they were finally going to settle down.
Settle down. These two words resonated like a hymn in the hearts of the Van der Linde Gang. For most of them, save Dutch and Micah, the desire for stability had long been a gnawing ache, or a quiet, indifferent acceptance. But overall, a life of stability had been an impossible dream.
They were beyond excited.
Dutch and Hosea passed the women's tent, their conversation drifting out.
"Oh, Mary-Beth! Guess what I heard today at the Valentine Tavern?" Karen's voice, bubbling with excitement, wrapped around Mary-Beth's waist in a tight, gleeful hug.
"What is it, dear?" Mary-Beth, ever gentle, her smile soft and warm, inquired.
"Oh ho ho, it's a story about a Valentine curse! Didn't expect that, did you? I actually heard them talking in the tavern about a terrifying curse in Valentine…"
Dutch's good mood, so recently buoyant with ambition, suddenly plummeted. He bid Hosea a terse goodbye and retreated into his tent.
"Oh, dear, tonight…" Miss Molly O'Shea's voice, thick with anticipation, met him as he entered, her face flushed, her eyes expectant. Since his transmigration, Dutch felt an almost limitless wellspring of stamina, a boundless vigor. The notion of being "always in peak condition" was an undeniably powerful allure for women. Molly, after just one experience, found herself utterly captivated.
"Oh, Molly, can it wait?" Dutch asked, his voice strained with apology. He gently lifted Miss O'Shea, placing her on the inner side of the bed, then sat heavily on the edge, his thoughts a chaotic storm. "I… I need a little time to think about some things."
"Alright, dear! But don't make me wait too long!" Molly's joy was undimmed. Even though Dutch was forty-one, a middle-aged man, his charm, amplified by his newfound vitality, was incomparable in her eyes. He was a veritable superman in the night, and she found herself utterly enthralled. In those moments, if Dutch asked Molly to die, she would likely hesitate for only a fleeting second.
But Dutch had no such thoughts. His mind was seized by Karen's words, by the chilling mention of a curse. It was a well-known fact that the world of Red Dead Redemption was riddled with Easter eggs—especially those of the supernatural and horrifying kind. And the Valentine curse was merely one of them.
If the Valentine curse was real, then all the others would surely exist too. The Vampire of Saint Denis. The female ghost in the swamp. The colossal anaconda lurking in the trees. The UFOs. The robots. The spectral ghost town. The monstrous water creature…
"Damn it!" Dutch cursed under his breath, drawing a cigarette and lighting it, the flare briefly illuminating his troubled face. "How in the hell did this turn into a fantasy world?"