Dutch, a smirk of profound satisfaction playing on his lips, rode back to his ranch with Arthur at his side. Valentine, now a pliable pawn in his grand scheme, demanded his personal touch. It was not merely his staging ground before the inevitable voyage to Guarma, but the crucial linchpin for his audacious entry into the arms industry. Valentine, every last inch of it, had to be under his absolute, unyielding control.
The year 1899 was a canvas stretched taut with possibility. The Great War had not yet erupted, and the world's wealth continued its relentless growth, particularly within the United States. Little Mustache man was merely a distant murmur, Europe comfortably encapsulated in its own volatile, yet familiar, struggles.
This was a fertile period for rise, for acquisition. Of course, Dutch's aim was not mere destruction; there was no meaning in that. Eradicate one, and another would inevitably emerge. As long as humanity drew breath, capitalists could not be truly vanquished. His ambition was far grander: to forge a new consortium centered entirely around Dutch Van der Linde as its supreme architect, to supplant the Anglo-Saxon titans. Or rather, to become them.
The arms industry itself, in 1899, was just beginning to stir. The titans of American firearms at this juncture were Winchester and Colt. Winchester, the more formidable of the two, churned out millions of light weapons for both the United States Government and private citizens, establishing itself as the reigning power operating through official channels. Colt, meanwhile, leaned heavily towards civilian markets. As for the colossal American arms manufacturers of today, none had yet even been conceived.
The singular exception, General Dynamics, had coincidentally just been founded, in this very year, 1899. Dutch's movements, therefore, were not late at all; they were perfectly, brutally timed.
Dutch and Arthur arrived back at Hope's Dream Ranch, their timing impeccable. A heavy carriage, laden with fresh lumber, rumbled towards them.
"Hey, Dutch!" John called out from his perch on the carriage, leaping down with agile grace. He wasn't alone; employees from the lumber mill had accompanied the delivery. "Hello, sir," the workers chorused, bowing gentlemanly to Dutch and Arthur.
Dutch waved a dismissive hand, then turned to John. "Oh, Marston, why are there only two of you? Where's Hosea?" Arthur asked, casually tying his horse's reins to the hitching post.
"Hosea went to recruit more workers. You know, we ordered quite a few houses this time, and even some greenhouses. We can't assemble them all quickly on our own." John returned Arthur's greeting. He then gestured to the carriage. "This is just the first batch of lumber. The rest will be delivered by this gentleman. He just came along this time to learn the route."
"Oh, well, sir, thank you for your assistance. Now, you may return and transport the next load of lumber." Dutch smiled, stepping forward, and pulled a crisp five-dollar tip from his pocket, handing it to the young lumberjack. The young man's eyes widened, then gleamed with sudden, boundless energy.
"Oh, sir, esteemed sir, please rest assured! I will personally select the newest, strongest lumber for you! This current load isn't up to standard, don't worry! I'll take it back right now and exchange it for a fresh cart, just for you!" The young man was ecstatic; five dollars in tip was equivalent to ten days' wages! Enough to enjoy a glorious night at the tavern, perhaps even hire a girl, spend a few nights in a fragrant hotel, and receive a luxurious, scented bath, with someone to scrub him clean! He immediately spun his carriage around, disappearing down the road.
John watched, dumbfounded, then awkwardly scratched his head. "Dutch, I… I didn't know it would be like this. I don't understand lumber, and I'm not exactly a master of communication, you know."
"Oh, of course I know, Marston," Arthur quipped, a cheerful, biting sarcasm in his voice. "Not only do you not understand lumber, you can't swim, and your horsemanship isn't exactly impressive either. I once had a small donkey that couldn't talk either. Oh, Marston? Did I shatter your fragile heart?" Arthur, and his silver tongue, was as potent as ever, and John's face burned crimson under the barrage.
"Fuck! Arthur!" Tongue-tied, John could only endure the mocking defeat.
Dutch merely smiled, listening to their familiar bickering, then strode towards the main wooden cabin of the ranch.
"Ms. Grimshaw, ah, you've kept the camp remarkably beautiful. I think we might even plant some vegetables directly in front of our door, as a charming embellishment. What do you think?"
Life at the ranch swiftly settled into a relentless, productive routine. Under Hosea's steady leadership, aided by the tireless efforts of the other gang members, the wooden cabins on the ranch rose with astonishing speed.
The American Homestead Act of 1899, which remained largely unchanged, was incredibly lenient. In their relentless pursuit of Indian lands, the government had made it remarkably easy: pay a meager ten-dollar registration fee, claim an unclaimed area, build a house, and the 160 acres surrounding your new home automatically became your legal property. The land Dutch had purchased was indeed unclaimed, allowing him to expand his ranch boundaries freely. But for now, there was no need.
Under the irresistible force of money, wooden houses and sheds sprang up at a feverish pace. A labor force of nearly a hundred strong completed ten large wooden cabins, each capable of housing twenty people, alongside five expansive wooden sheds, all within a mere three days. These sheds, essentially repurposed livestock enclosures, merely lacked fences and troughs. While utilizing wooden sheds as factory buildings was rudimentary, it was quick and cost-effective. Dutch was racing against the clock; every action had to be faster, more efficient.
The so-called wooden cabins, designed for twenty occupants, were partitioned into twenty individual rooms. Each room boasted a generous six square meters of space, ample enough not only for a bed but also for personal belongings or a private retreat. One could not underestimate the sheer luxury of these "six-square-meter" rooms. In this era, having one's own private room while working for an employer was simply unimaginable. In late 19th-century Britain, "rope beds," "sitting beds," and even "coffin beds" were infamous: pay a penny to sleep hanging over a drying rope, two pence for a seated sleep, and a suffocating four pence for a coffin-like board where one couldn't even lie flat.
Compared to that, these six-square-meter cabins were a veritable paradise. Renting such a room in the city would cost five to ten dollars a month. Male laborers in Valentine often slept in cattle pens or simply collapsed in any empty spot for the night; ranch owners never provided personal rooms. Even John, whose abilities were recognized, would have seen his family of three sleeping in a cattle pen otherwise.
Therefore, this level of accommodation and the provision of daily meals alone would undoubtedly draw countless women, scrambling to work, even if there were no salary. Add a monthly wage of twenty-five dollars, and Hope's Dream Ranch would truly become a happy paradise, a beacon of a new future in the unforgiving Wild West.