Out of trust for Dutch, Arthur didn't press the issue. He could sense Dutch had something deeper in mind—something beyond the immediate battle.
This time, the gang was stronger than ever. Their fighting force far exceeded what the original course of events had predicted.
In the original timeline, John had been too injured to come along. But things had played out differently—thanks to Dutch's decisive cover during the retreat, their escape had been smoother, and John had avoided getting shot before climbing the mountain. The wolf bites were bad, but nothing he couldn't walk off.
With Dutch recovered and John fit for action, plus the survival of David and Mike—who were long dead in the other story—this fight was no longer a desperate struggle. It was a calculated execution.
The Van der Linde gang perched above the snowy ridge, binoculars in hand, scoping out the O'Driscoll camp below. Like phantoms in the frost, they descended without a sound.
And then it began.
The O'Driscolls never saw it coming. Under the relentless fire of Arthur, David, and Mike—the gang's three deadliest sharpshooters—they fell like cattle at slaughter. It wasn't a skirmish. It was annihilation.
Only after the last man dropped did Dutch nod solemnly.
"Clean it up, boys. Take everything. Food, ammo, supplies—our people back at camp need it. Even the old-timers could use a warm meal."
Mounted on his horse, Dutch directed the men with sweeping gestures, a general after a flawless campaign. The gang descended on the O'Driscoll camp like vultures, stripping everything of value. Clothes, supplies—even boots—were taken. The snow-covered remains were left shivering in their undergarments, strewn across the frozen earth.
"Dutch! Look what I found!" Bill shouted, marching forward with a grin. He held out a rolled-up map.
Dutch took it, glanced over it, then tossed it to the ground.
"It's a plan," he said plainly. "O'Driscoll boys were eyeing Cornwall's train. Unregistered bonds. Big score."
Bill picked the map up again, confused. "Then why don't we take it, Dutch? They've got dynamite, too. Why let it go to waste?"
The others gathered around, interest piqued at the mention of a train job.
Dutch smiled faintly, but his tone turned cold.
"No. We're not touching that train."
The gang murmured.
Dutch continued. "The Pinkertons had their claws ripped out of the East—Congress stripped their jurisdiction. But if we make a move that loud? They'll be back with badges and bloodhounds. And more than that… Cornwall's no simple mark. He's an oil baron, a railroad king, a sugar lord. This man is war in a suit. A few bonds aren't worth starting a war."
He turned his horse. "Let's move. I want to be out of this snow before we lose our minds in it."
The gang, still riding high on victory, followed Dutch down the mountain trail toward Valentine.
Meanwhile, Arthur and David returned with a captive—Kieran. Another piece of the plan.
There was a stash of gold buried in that mountain, but Dutch didn't care. Not now. Not with something bigger in mind.
—
Days passed. No train robbery. No shootouts. Just silence.
Dutch barely left his room. For two whole weeks, he stayed holed up with paper and ink, working on something no one else understood.
Only Hosea had been allowed in. And what he saw left him stunned.
"Oh Dutch…" Hosea's voice trailed off, bewildered. "Are these… clothing designs?"
Dutch didn't answer. He just kept sketching.
On the table: elegant suits, alluring dresses, flowing coats. Some styles were risqué enough to make Hosea blush.
"These came from Mary-Beth's paper stash, didn't they?" Hosea muttered.
Dutch finally looked up, grinning with a cigar in hand. "We need an entry point, Hosea. A path into the real world. Not through robbery, but through relevance."
"You're serious about this? Fashion?" Hosea asked.
Dutch exhaled a slow stream of smoke. "Not just fashion. Connections. Clothes are just the beginning. People talk. People remember. When our name is on every finely-stitched collar from here to Saint Denis, they'll owe us something."
"You said before we'd sell guns," Hosea reminded him.
"We still might," Dutch said. "But moonshine, guns—they bring money, not allies. Clothes? They bring networks. Civilized ones."
Hosea looked at the sketches again. Some of them could belong on a Parisian runway, others in a brothel. But they all had one thing in common—they drew attention.
"You're actually going to try this," Hosea murmured.
Dutch smiled wider. "Hosea, I don't just try. I see, I come and I conquer."
And in his mind, he was already stitching the threads of a new empire—one far more dangerous than any shootout.
One stitched with silk, shadow, and strategy.