Colm wasn't the sole familiar face haunting the brutal, unforgiving expanse of the snow-covered mountains. Oh no, a far more dangerous ghost was stirring.
"A shuddering NEIGH!" A horse's terrified neigh clawed at the crisp mountain air, sending the scattering rabbits into a comedic frenzy, their tiny white tails vanishing into the drifts. More than half a month of relentless wind and snow had mercilessly swallowed every last trace in the treacherous peaks, turning the pursuit into a maddening, frozen game of hide-and-seek.
But while the blizzards could erase tracks outside a shack, the tell-tale signs of recent habitation still lingered, a ghostly scent in the frigid air.
"Creak!" The door, a sad, decayed thing groaning under the weight of the elements, scraped open. Out stepped a lean, almost gaunt figure, swallowed by a massive fur coat.
His eyes were deeply sunken, giving him the look of a man who hadn't seen a decent night's sleep in years, and his aquiline nose jutted out like a sharpened weapon. By face alone, he looked like the kind of man who'd steal the fillings from your teeth, but in a delicious twist of irony, he was Milton, a genuinely, disturbingly good person, or as good as a Pinkerton Detective could be.
Milton flicked the now rock-hard cigar, a frozen, stubby monument to past indulgence, into the pristine snow. He then meticulously pulled on his gloves, his gaze a predator's sweep from the discarded cigar to the dilapidated cabin behind him, soaking in every damning sign of recent, very human, very Van der Linde life.
"Dutch Van der Linde," he stated, the name hanging in the frosty air like a death knell.
Outside, three other Pinkerton Detectives patrolled with the grim efficiency of undertakers, their horses occasionally snorting plumes of vapor, impatient for action. From another room, Ross, Milton's junior, emerged, clutching a piece of ladies' clothing with the awkwardness of a man holding a live badger. He approached Milton, looking far too pleased with his discovery.
"Mr. Milton, it has to be the Van der Linde Gang. This room is clearly a… ladies' room. You know, the O'Driscoll Gang wouldn't exactly be furnishing a 'powder room' for their women, unless it was for holding target practice."
Milton offered a curt nod, his gaze already tracing the unseen path leading towards Valentine. Ross, emboldened, pressed on, "So, if the Van der Linde Gang was here, that charred husk of a house further up… that must have been their handiwork, right?"
Milton scoffed, a dry, dismissive sound that was barely audible above the wind. "No, Ross. The Van der Linde Gang, despite their current predicament, would never stoop to such despicable acts. They fancy themselves 'gentlemen who rob the rich to help the poor.' They don't just avoid harming ordinary folks; they practically trip over themselves to 'help' them, all to prop up that ridiculously fragile facade of justice. It's Dutch's grand performance, his cunning trick to win hearts and minds. His rules, as absurd as they may be, cannot be broken, just as his 'dignity' cannot be insulted! He would never, ever shatter the very foundation of his carefully constructed reputation."
Milton's voice grew sharper, a hint of weary exasperation creeping in. "Ross, you still need to learn the subtle art of observing details and the utterly unsubtle nuances of human nature. Dutch, even when staring death in the face back in Blackwater, never considered harming innocent civilians or taking hostages. It defies all logic for him to suddenly burn down a house here, ruining the precious reputation he's so meticulously crafted. And the fools he's attracted to his gang? They've swallowed his creed hook, line, and sinker. That, my boy, is the secret to the Van der Linde Gang's disturbing cohesion. Compared to those preening 'gentlemen' burning houses, I'm far more inclined to believe the O'Driscoll Gang, those delightful little barbarians, were the architects of that particular blaze."
"But Dutch is dead, sir," Ross, uncharacteristically, dared to retort, clinging to the official narrative. "Perhaps the Van der Linde Gang won't follow his rules now that he's, you know, horribly deceased?" After all, they had witnessed Dutch take three bullets. Even a grizzly bear would have politely expired from that. How could a mere outlaw still be drawing breath? Their main reason for scaling this frozen hellscape was the staggering sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That money had to be recovered. As for the O'Driscolls or the tattered remnants of Dutch's crew? Expendable, all of them.
Milton didn't bother to dignify Ross's question with a refutation. He, too, harbored a healthy dose of skepticism about Dutch's miraculous survival, but the money was the mission.
"Alright, Ross, let's move. I suspect the Van der Linde Gang, given their particular brand of moral elasticity, will have made a beeline for Valentine."
"Yes, sir," Ross nodded, "after all, outlaws and their questionable life choices invariably lead them to the nearest saloon." Strawberry, that teetotaling abyss, was a non-starter for most gangs; no profit, and more importantly, no decent hooch. Thus, the only beacon for these purveyors of chaos was Valentine.
Milton and his grim procession slowly descended through the snowy mountains, their path set firmly towards Valentine.
Meanwhile, far from the biting cold and relentless pursuit, Mary and Arthur had indeed enjoyed a glorious, vaguely scandalous night. And in a parallel universe of domestic bliss, Dutch and Molly, too, had shared a wonderfully... Dutch night. One could only hope John and Abigail also managed some peace.
But Sean and Karen… well, let's just say Sean probably had a wonderful night. Karen, on the other hand, likely woke up with more questions than answers, and possibly a mild concussion.
Early the next morning, Arthur, slipping out from under the covers with the stealth of a cat burglar, gazed at Mary, still blissfully lost in slumber beside him. He quietly dressed and headed outside.
"Oh, Arthur, my boy, discard those plebeian rags! And adorn yourself in this!" Dutch, resplendent in an outfit that screamed 'gentleman of questionable morals but impeccable taste,' held out a garment. It was unlike anything found in the market, yet impossibly handsome and stylish. "We're off to Saint Denis by train, and wearing our own designs is a form of exquisite promotion! Oh, and do rouse Mary, have her change into this divine ensemble as well." He then turned his beaming, slightly unhinged gaze to John, Hosea, and the ladies of the camp.
"Oh, John, Hosea, you two also shed your dull skins for these marvels! And ladies, please, choose an outfit that speaks to your inner goddess of fashion! This, my friends, is our golden opportunity to showcase our sartorial genius to the discerning ladies of Saint Denis!"
At Dutch's dramatic pronouncement, a gaggle of girls descended upon the sofa, their eyes widening at the astonishing array of clothing styles laid out before them.
"Oh! This dress is exquisite! Truly! The texture alone is a revelation! My goodness, I can't even fathom how utterly divine I'll look in this!" Jenny exclaimed, practically hyperventilating over a formal dress that seemed spun from dreams and larceny.
These garments were Dutch's personal masterpieces, designed and daringly modified based on styles both modern and, in a stroke of sheer audacity, ancient. Current fashion, while pretty, suffered from a singular, monotonous lineage. One shop unveiled a new design, and suddenly, every other store was slavishly copying it.
Dutch, however, a true visionary ,at least in his own mind, had bypassed this limitation. His designs were breathtakingly novel, stunningly beautiful, and imbued with an elegant dignity that made them utterly fantastic. What's more, these clothes possessed a unique duality: they could be both subtly authoritative and overtly alluring. Worn simply, they exuded dignity, but paired with, say, a judicious flash of stocking, they became positively bursting with forbidden allure.
Dutch believed, with the unwavering conviction of a zealot, that the capitalists and politicians of Saint Denis would absolutely adore these clothes. But this, of course, was merely his initial intention.
For the clothing venture to become a veritable money-printing machine, it needed to transcend mere garments and become a brand. A reputation. Most brands built their name on quality, value, and comfort. Dutch, however, was aiming for the crème de la crème. The reputation of the highest-end brands, he knew, was built on an entirely different foundation: leading the trend and being at the absolute forefront of fashion!
So, if his clothing business was to be a sustainable goldmine, a second source of income alongside the less refined art of firearms, he had to forge a brand with an undeniable, unshakeable reputation. He even harbored the deliciously wicked ambition of creating a social phenomenon, a self-perpetuating snob-machine: "If you don't drape yourself in VDL, you're a common stable hand! If you don't wear VDL, you're not even considered high society! If you don't wear VDL, you can't even darken the door of such high-class gatherings!"
This, he theorized, would ensure a relentless deluge of pretentious individuals and those desperate to feign elegance, all clamoring to buy his clothes. They would, in their infinite wisdom, even create their own glorious chain of contempt, madly chasing the ephemeral pride and fleeting satisfaction of others' shallow recognition. From ancient empires to the burgeoning modern age, it was always the same trick. Push a little, and the sycophants would emerge from the woodwork, polishing their imaginary tiaras.
Dutch understood this principle exquisitely.
Arthur, with a resigned sigh that was almost a chuckle, returned to his room, reluctantly donned the surprisingly comfortable, though slightly ostentatious, ensemble Dutch had bestowed upon him, and gently roused Mary.
The clothes worn by Dutch and Arthur were the only non-uniform styles among the three men's outfits. Dutch, in his boundless creative fervor, had designed a plethora of men's styles, but the rushed production meant many were temporarily shelved. Once the glorious flagship store opened, these sartorial masterpieces would appear, one by one. A new men's and women's outfit would be launched weekly, each guaranteed to dictate the latest trend, ensuring the world knew that Dutch's clothing store was the very epitome of trends!
Moreover, if one looked closely at the garments Dutch and Arthur wore, a subtly, almost ironically, embroidered 'VDL' tag could be found on the upper left side of the chest. This was the abbreviation for the Van der Linde Gang—their secret handshake, their logo, their brand. Using Pinyin was a stroke of genius; people wouldn't truly associate the brand with a notorious outlaw gang (after all, English lacked that particular pronunciation), yet, when read aloud, it still whispered "Van der Linde" to those in the know.
A logo, Dutch knew, was the beating heart of a brand. Even if this era lacked stringent anti-counterfeiting laws, possessing a distinctive brand was a stroke of marketing brilliance. Even if cheap imitations flooded the market, most people, the discerning ones, would still flock to the official Van der Linde Gang branded stores to claim their slice of fashionista glory.
"Alright, Dutch," Arthur grumbled, adjusting a collar that felt entirely too fancy for a train ride, "when are we setting off to unleash this… fashion on the unsuspecting populace?"
"Now, Arthur," Dutch declared, a glint of manic ambition in his eyes. "The fashion world awaits its new overlords."