No sooner had Bronte's imposing figure vanished, swallowed by the bustling street, than the door to the clothing store creaked open once more. In stepped Arthur, flanked by two familiar, yet starkly out-of-place, Indians.
"Oh, Dutch, was that... was that Mr. Bronte who just left?" Arthur asked, his brow furrowed in a bewildered frown, his eyes still lingering on the retreating form. He'd only glimpsed the notorious mob boss at the banquet, but the man's presence was unmistakable.
"Yes, Arthur, it was indeed Mr. Bronte," Dutch confirmed, rising from the lounge table with a graceful, almost majestic fluidity. He strode towards the two men beside Arthur, his face blossoming into a smile of overwhelming warmth and amiability.
He looked, at that moment, like the very embodiment of honesty and genuine compassion, the kind of man you'd entrust your last dollar to. Which, of course, was precisely the image Dutch cultivated. "Oh, and these two behind you," he purred, his eyes twinkling, "I presume they are the esteemed gentlemen I wished to invite?"
"Oh, gentlemen, hello," Dutch declared, extending a hand with flamboyant enthusiasm, eager to clasp the hands of both Rains Fall and Flying Eagle. "I am Dutch Van der Linde."
"Hello, sir. I am Rains Fall, and this is my son, Flying Eagle." Rains Fall's hand met Dutch's, his grip surprisingly firm. His face remained a mask of stoic serenity, yet within his chest, a flicker of desperate hope had begun to flutter. To be able to socialize with Mr. Bronte, no less, undeniably signaled the man before him possessed immense influence. Perhaps he could truly sway the state government, or even Mr. Cornwall himself. If so, it would be a miracle. Their tribe, Rains Fall knew, could no longer bear the brutal agony of war.
"Please sit, Mr. Rains Fall." Dutch's smile never wavered as he gestured to the plush chairs in the lounge area, then turned to the nervous Avril. "Miss Avril, please bring two more cups of coffee."
"No need, miss. Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Dutch." Rains Fall, his voice soft but resolute, gently waved Avril away. Hope was blooming in his heart, nourished by Dutch's disarming warmth, but he still felt he had no right to such luxuries. He was here to beg for help, not to enjoy a leisurely afternoon.
"Hahaha, it's quite alright, Mr. Rains Fall. Coffee is simply our way of extending hospitality," Dutch chuckled, making a grand, dismissive gesture to Avril, signaling her to persist. Arthur, meanwhile, had already slumped into a nearby chair, pulling out his cigarette tin and offering one to Flying Eagle, a surprising gesture of casual camaraderie. He had a strange, paternal fondness for this young man, who seemed far less of an "asshole" than Arthur himself had been at that age.
Once everyone was settled, Dutch leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Rains Fall, and began. "Mr. Rains Fall, I understand the purpose of your visit. I have heard that oil has been discovered on your sacred lands. Consequently, the peace treaty has been shamelessly torn apart, and you are, once again, facing the crushing indignity of expulsion."
"Yes, Mr. Dutch, so we…" Rains Fall nodded, his expression remaining outwardly calm, though a deep weariness settled in his eyes. He had fought his entire life, and through countless betrayals, he had long ago seen through the transparent hypocrisy of these Americans. He never truly believed their peace treaties could restrain their rapacious greed, but if they didn't fight, there was no hope at all.
Dutch nodded slowly, then his gaze drifted meaningfully to Rains Fall's worn clothing and the weathered hat clutched in his hands. "So, you seek to find various avenues of resistance," Dutch interrupted, his voice hushed, almost conspiratorial, "to delay, to prevent your ancestral lands from being desecrated once more, to prevent your tribe from suffering the torment of endless wandering, of endless bloodshed. You simply wish to maintain your current, fragile peace in the sacred forest, isn't that right?" He finished, his eyes holding Rains Fall's, a profound, manufactured empathy etched on his face.
Rains Fall was silent for a long moment, then, his voice barely a whisper, he affirmed, "Yes, Mr. Dutch."
Dutch nodded sympathetically, his voice now tinged with a carefully modulated sadness, a deep, resonant rumble. He leaned back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if recalling ancient sorrows. "I know the pain of wandering, Mr. Rains Fall. Like you, I, and indeed, every member of my gang—Arthur, Hosea, John, every single one of us—has known nothing but wandering since we could remember. There are even two states offering bounties for our very heads! The government, Mr. Rains Fall, hates us even more than they hate you, because we have dared to use their methods against them!" He paused, his gaze returning to Rains Fall, filled with mock righteousness.
"I always used to tell my gang members that America no longer possessed civilization and freedom! That it was filled only with bandits and darkness!"
Dutch declared, his voice rising, a dramatic crescendo.
"Because everywhere you looked, there was only the ruthless exploitation of capitalists and the desperate cries of the exploited poor. Gentlemen, I do not tolerate such a society, and I especially do not tolerate being oppressed, being whipped! So, I led my gang in a fierce, defiant resistance, pursued by them from one state to the next, from one bloody border to another. Even now, they are still pursuing us, relentlessly, simply because we dared to learn a bit of their way of doing things!"
Dutch had launched into his classic, montage-style lie, a tapestry of deception woven with carefully selected threads of truth. He twisted the heinous crimes of the Van der Linde Gang into a heroic narrative: "using their methods against them." This instantly elevated his image in the eyes of Rains Fall and Flying Eagle.
He even employed classic manipulative rhetoric, drawing both sides into the same tragic camp, which subtly, dangerously, made Flying Eagle and Rains Fall not only feel a sense of kinship with Dutch but also unconsciously begin to nod along with his words. This was a linguistic tactic Dutch used frequently; he'd perfected it when charming Marko into his fold.
What the hell is "using their methods against them" if not pure, unadulterated banditry? Arthur wondered, a faint, incredulous chuckle escaping him, though he quickly covered it with a cough.
He unconsciously stroked his beard, a wry grin playing on his lips. Damn it, are we really that great? Looks like I can't call myself a wanted criminal anymore. I'm apparently a freedom fighter now.
Meanwhile, Rains Fall and Flying Eagle, utterly captivated, were already nodding in solemn agreement. Flying Eagle, the more emotional of the two, even had a distinct glint in his eye, a spark of burgeoning rebellion.
Rains Fall nodded, his agreement profound, his voice laden with a deep, weary sadness. "Yes, Mr. Dutch. Bandits. That is their true nature. From the very beginning, they have been stealing everything from us. We… we have reached the very end of the road, and now, they are still forcing us, expelling us once more."
"Oh, America has long lost its freedom and human rights, Mr. Rains Fall," Dutch lamented, his voice a mournful dirge. "Whether it's your devastating experiences, or our own struggles over these many years, this entire damned America has been ruthlessly ruled by those perched in the upper echelons. They will do anything for their own self-interest. This country is utterly terrible, this society is completely distorted!"
Dutch leaned forward, his gaze intense. "I once dedicated myself to resisting this twisted era. I, like you, fought fiercely on the path of resistance, leading my family, my beloved members, to contend with this distorted society, to stubbornly resist in my own way, with my own strength. But, Mr. Rains Fall," Dutch dropped his voice to a grave whisper, his hand gesturing towards his chest, "in Blackwater Town, when I was shot three times and nearly died, I suddenly had a profound epiphany."
"Mr. Rains Fall," Dutch's voice became a solemn pronouncement, "our own methods of resistance, however righteous, are utterly incapable of fighting them!"
Rains Fall nodded, a flicker of profound understanding in his eyes. He grasped this truth intimately. From the outset, the Indians' resistance had been bows and arrows against firearms—a losing battle. Later, they acquired guns, only to find their enemies had cannons. It was an unwinnable fight.
"So," Dutch continued, his voice laced with a subtle, yet profound, shift in tone, his eyes fixed on Rains Fall's bewildered face, "why can't we use their methods… to fight them?"
That single sentence, delivered with such deceptive simplicity, left Rains Fall bewildered.