This, precisely, was Dutch's grand design. He aimed to accelerate the relentless march of women's suffrage, to do so by offering tangible benefits, to elevate the very treatment of American women and ignite their collective passions. His strategy was insidious: he would cultivate a select group of women, living in a meticulously crafted paradise, to serve as shining, impossible role models. Their idyllic existence would stir the corrosive emotions of envy, jealousy, and burning resentment in other women, driving them to a desperate fury. This madness, in turn, would crash against Congress, forging a monumental alliance capable of challenging the entire nation.
All the talk of freedom, of equality, of noble character? A smokescreen. Dutch was ruthlessly exploiting human jealousy.
Imagine: you see other female workers with their own private rooms, engaged in decent, respectable jobs, while you are nothing more than a boss's maid, or worse, a sex worker, earning a pittance, barely able to feed yourself. Does that not spark jealousy? Others earn a princely twenty-five dollars a month, enjoy ample free time, endure no back-breaking labor, and receive free food and coffee. Does that not breed envy? Others live with their children in comfortable factory-provided rooms, building a beautiful, harmonious little family, while you huddle beneath a bridge with your son, perpetually hungry, constantly brutalized. Does that not twist your gut with envy?
Absolutely. It's an undeniable truth. Their emotions will be irrevocably stirred! At that moment, the once-small, fragmented women's movement will surge, propelled from one electrifying climax to another! And once the vast majority of women, disgusted by their own plight, swell the ranks of the women's rights association, they will discover their true benefactor is none other than Dutch, a true altruist who provides them with free food and coffee. What then will be their fervent conviction?
Undoubtedly, if Dutch chose to run for president, women would be the first, the most zealous, to rally behind him!
What is a capitalist? This is a capitalist. A true capitalist. Not those useless bloodsuckers, those pathetic parasites clinging to the lifeblood of others. Beyond a six-square-meter cabin for each person, Dutch had meticulously ordered the procurement of fresh bedding and essential daily necessities for every room, ensuring that workers could immediately begin their new lives upon arrival. From this alone, it was abundantly clear: Dutch's conscience, when it served his purpose, was truly a marvel.
In a mere three days, the houses were complete. For these factory buildings, their various supporting facilities, and the initial worker expenses, Dutch had already disbursed over three thousand dollars.
"Oh, Dutch," Sean whistled, clicking his tongue as he surveyed the brand-new bedding and various daily necessities in the rooms. "Aren't our rooms a bit too well-furnished? Those Englishmen overseas, they don't have living conditions this good, you know." Sean, having witnessed firsthand the squalor of English laborers who often slept on mere ropes, knew the bitter truth. Had those unfortunates witnessed this scene, they would surely perish from sheer envy.
Dutch stood at the very front of the crowd, a beatific, infectious smile illuminating his face, radiating a gentle elegance, a warmth like a spring breeze. "Oh, Sean, you are mistaken, child. These common folk have suffered enough in life; we need not grind them harder for a paltry profit. What's more? Sometimes, sharing profits appropriately can yield far greater rewards—benefits that even money cannot buy." Dutch patted Sean's shoulder, then turned and walked away.
Arthur gazed at the freshly renovated spaces, a sigh of profound emotion escaping him, then followed Dutch out. "Tsk!" Arthur pulled out a cigarette, struck a match on the sole of his boot, and took a long, thoughtful drag. He eyed Dutch, who walked ahead. "Dutch, the shops in Valentine and Strawberry have been bought, and they're undergoing renovations. Should our factory start hiring workers now?" He offered Dutch a cigarette.
"Oh, no hurry. Await Ms. Dorothea's news. I anticipate her word will arrive within the next couple of days." Dutch leaned against the railing outside the wooden cabin, accepting the cigarette from Arthur. He lit it, held it between his fingers across his chest, lost in thought for a moment, then spoke. "Our factory entails more than just this initial construction. Transportation, for instance, remains a critical issue, particularly when a wagon laden with thousands of dollars' worth of clothes must traverse the untamed wilderness. So, Arthur, our veteran recruitment plan is also a top priority. I believe we should go see Mr. Trelawny now."
"Alright." Arthur nodded, then rose and walked towards the stables. Most of the tasks Dutch had assigned over the past three days were nearing completion. Hosea and the others had done an exemplary job with the housing construction. They hadn't yet inspected Vulture Ranch, but he assumed its progress would be similar. The large wooden cabin where they now lived had been beautifully decorated by the ladies, brimming with the warmth of a true home, and little Jack, the gang's youngest, was utterly overjoyed.
This time, Dutch intended to seize the opportunity to assess the size of the rooms Ms. Dorothea had secured for them, and to gauge the progress of Mr. Trelawny's veteran initiative. Living in the West without a strong, armed force truly made one's skin crawl.
Just as the thought materialized, a piercing gunshot ripped through the air from the very entrance of Hope's Dream Ranch.
"Bang bang bang!"
"Oh ho ho, gentlemen, look what we've stumbled upon here? A brand new ranch! And a ranch out in the damn wilderness! I reckon the money inside will nourish our souls, and the women inside will nourish our bodies!" A wild, raucous laugh sliced through the gunfire from the ranch entrance.
"Slam!" The wooden cabin door behind Dutch burst open. David, Mac, Bill, Javier, Charles, John, Sean, Hosea, and even Pearson and Uncle, streamed out like a torrent. Ms. Grimshaw, a shotgun gripped firmly in her hands, emerged from another cabin, while Arthur, just stepping from the stables, swiftly converged on the group's position.
"Shit! These damned bastards!" Arthur roared, pulling his revolver, his face contorted with rage.
Dutch's expression, however, was far stranger. For the first time, he felt a profound sense of being outdone. Damn it, we are the Dutch Van der Linde Gang! We may have changed professions recently, no longer engaging in robbery, but we are not dead! We are not incapable of holding a gun!