The latest recruitment drive was a grim success, bringing in 150 sorely needed female workers. But more critically, it also bolstered our meager defenses. From the desperate families of these new arrivals, twenty-three hardened gunmen were hand-picked, swelling the camp's armed force to a grand total of forty. A fragile shield, barely enough to survive in this treacherous, gang-infested West.
Yet, forty men with rusty rifles and aging pistols were a death wish. Our arsenal screamed for an overhaul. We needed more than just a scatter of firearms; we needed explosives, enough to level a small building, and at least a few Maxim machine guns, those steel beasts that spat death. And at the very least, a pair of fortified bunkers, squat and unyielding, would have to rise from the dirt at the camp's entrance, silent sentinels against the encroaching darkness.
As the first tendrils of dawn crept over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of reluctant gold, Hope Happiness Ranch began to stir.
"Mornin', Arthur."
"Morning, Mary-Beth."
"Goddammit, Marston, you have to light up that cancer stick this early? Can't a woman breathe fresh air for five minutes?"
"Oh, Abigail, you can go outside and choke on horse shit for all I care!"
"John Marston! You bastard!"
The usual cacophony of the camp, a twisted symphony of life, filled the air. Dutch, propped against the headboard, watched Ms. O'Shea, a beautiful wreck from the night before, still lost in slumber. The joyous, albeit crude, sounds outside warmed him, a deep, unsettling fulfillment blooming in his chest. It was the warmth of family, of his family, a feeling he clung to with a desperate grip. This was why he'd always preferred the vibrant chaos of Chapter 2, the beating heart of the gang, over John's solitary, aimless wanderings.
The gang was their home. These noisy, bickering, vibrant souls were his kin. This unpolished, unpredictable existence, filled with daily arguments and laughter, was the life they craved.
It wasn't merely a preference; for Dutch, for Arthur, for John, it was woven into the very fabric of their being. Stability was a cage. Nomadism, however dangerous, was freedom. And it had become their unyielding truth, impossible to change.
Dutch absorbed the commotion for a long moment, then swung his legs over the side of the bed, dressing with practiced ease. He stepped into the living room.
"Morning, Dutch!" Arthur, ever the early bird, spotted him immediately, his greeting crisp.
"You too, son," Dutch replied, a genuine smile touching his lips as he moved towards the makeshift dining area.
Pearson, in his infinite wisdom, had once again provided... cold leftovers. Or rather, he cooked dinner, and everything else was a testament to its frigid survival.
"My old friend," Dutch chuckled, surveying Hosea, who was methodically working his way through a plate of questionable provenance. "You're growing rather… plump, aren't you? I half suspect this gang exists solely to feed your insatiable maw."
Hosea, unperturbed, offered a dry laugh. "Oh, Dutch, surely you wouldn't deny an old man his sustenance?" He shifted, making a sliver of space.
Just then, Ms. Susan pushed open the door, her expression tight. "Dutch, the ladies. They're asking when they can start work. They're practically climbing the walls."
"Alright, alright, I'll address them." Dutch plucked a cigar from the table, lit it, but remained seated. His gaze, however, sharpened on Hosea. "Old friend, our camp's defenses are still woefully inadequate, especially our firepower. Our numbers have swelled, and with them, our responsibility. We must secure not only ourselves but these women. So, I need you to venture out. Use those silver tongues and all your connections. Find a black market. And bring back weapons. Bring back everything."
Hosea's expression turned grave. "I agree. The camp is a sieve. John, Sean, Charles—you three are with me. I believe Mr. Trelawny might have a lead on a suitable merchant. We'll go arm ourselves."
"You sure you can handle it?" Arthur asked, a flicker of concern in his eyes.
"Shit! Arthur, you think the three of us ain't capable?" John snarled, his pride pricked.
"Marston," Arthur drawled, a smirk playing on his lips, "Pearson's chickens show more initiative than you."
"SHIT! MORGAN!" John's face reddened, but he could only fume, a familiar dance of frustration. It was the natural order of things in the gang.
"Relax, Arthur," Hosea interjected smoothly, a placating smile. "We'll take a few of our new security personnel. After all, these gentlemen are now earning their keep."
Dutch watched their spat with a silent, appreciative chuckle. This vibrant, abrasive energy, this constant push and pull, was a stark contrast to the hollow silence that would eventually consume them in Chapter 6. And for now, it was a comfort.
Breakfast done, Dutch, with Arthur trailing behind, carried the meticulously drafted blueprints. Ten designs, sketched first by Dutch's rough hand, then refined with Arthur's surprisingly artistic touch. They headed towards the female workers' quarters.
From the gathered crowd, Dutch summoned the seventeen women who possessed the rare skill of operating a sewing machine. Among them, Sandy Cott, the oldest, had been appointed temporary team leader yesterday. Her calm demeanor and steady work ethic had caught Dutch's discerning eye, earning her a bonus of five dollars above the rest. Stratified management, a key tenet of control, was already in play.
"Ms. Sandy," Dutch began, unfurling the blueprints with a flourish. "A moment of your expertise, if you please. Can these designs be brought to life?"
The ten blueprints detailed seven women's garments and three for men. It was still the heart of summer, and while Valentine offered a slight reprieve, Saint Denis remained a sweltering, humid crucible. Thus, Dutch had focused on summer styles—modern women's designs, all chosen for their striking elegance and dignified construction. Even in their two-dimensional form, they exuded novelty and beauty, two of them hinting at a daring, alluring sensuality.
The styles were predominantly European and American—modern cuts for a new age. But two designs dared to breach the mold, embracing classical aesthetics from beyond the Western world. One, named the "Malak Abaya" (Angel's Robe), was a regal ensemble with flowing layers and intricate gold-threaded embroidery. Inspired by Levantine and Arabian traditions, it exuded dignity and opulence—an extravagant classicism often glimpsed in old tales of desert courts and jeweled sultans. With quality fabrics now accessible and America's dyeing technology catching up, such garments were no longer the stuff of dreams.
The second was a reimagined sari ensemble,
sleek and structured, yet unmistakably Indian. Gone were the rigid conventions of regional draping or colonial modesty. This was something new—a hybrid of grace and bold geometry, fusing the ancient with the avant-garde. It was 1899; the Bombay high fashion scene hadn't even taken shape yet. Dutch, ever the visionary, was leapfrogging to the finish line, ready to unleash it on America first. He felt an almost feverish certainty: once these revolutionary designs hit the market, he wouldn't just be a leader of outlaws; he'd be America's undisputed fashion godfather, the unrivaled titan of style.
And as for anyone daring to raise a fuss about the "foreign" influence? A scoff escaped Dutch's lips. The Van der Linde Gang answered to no one. Anyone who dared to voice an objection would swiftly learn the hard truth of their outlaw nature. Problems, for Dutch, had a simple solution: eliminate the source.