Rains Fall and Flying Eagle rode out of Saint Denis, their horses' hooves clattering a somber rhythm on the cobblestones, but the crushing weight in their hearts was, miraculously, lighter than when they had arrived. When they first rode in, despair had clung to them like a shroud. They had come to beg the state government, to plead for adherence to broken treaties, a futile hope in a land that had never honored a single promise.
They both knew, deep down, it was a fool's errand. America, that sprawling, insatiable beast, had a long, bloody history of ignoring any treaty that stood in the way of profit. Even last night's gilded banquet, where Rains Fall had bravely handed his plea to the Mayor, had ended in a public, humiliating refusal. It was a stark, brutal reminder that in the eyes of these "Americans," they weren't even truly human.
Who could fathom the despair, the soul-crushing terror, of being laid out on a chopping block, awaiting the arbitrary whims of your executioner?
But then, out of the very jaws of their desperation, a figure had emerged, a man named Dutch Van der Linde, a serpent wrapped in silk, offering an utterly insane, yet terrifyingly plausible, path to survival.
"Hya!" The shouts echoed across the vast, indifferent wilderness as their horses galloped, leaving the city behind. Who knew how many grueling miles these two proud Indians, who couldn't even afford the luxury of a train ticket, had ridden to reach Saint Denis's indifferent gates?
As they thundered onward, Flying Eagle, his youthful impatience bubbling over, finally broke the silence. "Father," he called out, his voice sharp against the wind, "Mr. Dutch Van der Linde… what do we truly make of him?"
Rains Fall's face remained a mask of tranquil sorrow. "I know what troubles your young mind, child. But his words… they are too ethereal. Too dreamlike."
His spirit, having witnessed too much death, too much betrayal, had reached a state of pre-collapse serenity, a weary acceptance. He had fought, tooth and nail, for his tribe, for their very existence, yet never, not once, had he glimpsed a shred of true hope.
Flying Eagle frowned, a puzzled crease forming between his brows. "Then we are not joining Mr. Dutch's factory? If not, should we start trying to steal Mr. Cornwall's reports? Burn his camps?"
"No, child," Rains Fall sighed, a profound weariness in his voice. "I believe our only way out is to join Mr. Dutch's factory. But that… that is merely to ensure the survival of our tribesmen. As for becoming 'capitalists,' for 'buying America'—these are impossibly far-fetched dreams. They are impossible to achieve. Their society will not accept us. We are not yet even permitted to leave the reservation."
Rains Fall, hardened by countless heartbreaks, saw the brutal truth with chilling clarity. He knew nearly half of Dutch's mesmerizing monologue had been pure, unadulterated fabrication.
But one undeniable truth remained: Dutch had offered them a way to live. And they could only follow this treacherous path, or face the slow, agonizing, inevitable oblivion.
"Hya!" The horses pressed on, further and further into the vast, uncaring wilderness, a land that, ironically, now offered no refuge for its true, original inhabitants.
Dutch's Calculated Chaos
"Oh, Dutch, was Bronte here to cause trouble just now?" Arthur asked, entering the store, a mug of steaming, diluted coffee in his hand. He took a cautious sip, his brow furrowed with curiosity as he eyed the retreating figure he'd barely glimpsed.
"No, Arthur." Dutch, a sly grin playing on his lips, delicately clipped the tip off an unfinished cigar with a small, silver knife. "He came to recruit us. He wanted us to work for him."
Dutch placed the cigar carefully back into its box. "But I, of course, refused him. Being controlled only makes you a pawn that can be discarded at any time, child. Only by walking our own path can we truly become masters of our own destiny." He straightened, a look of profound wisdom on his face.
"Miss Avril, please put away my cigar." Dutch's gaze snapped to Arthur, a sudden spark of directorial exasperation in his eyes.
"Preparations for tomorrow's opening ribbon-cutting need to begin. Arthur, go buy some red ropes! And deliver this invitation letter to Mrs. Jones, the lady we met on the train. Oh, and tonight," Dutch grimaced, a theatrical shudder, "take a bath, shave that hideous beard, and put on the suits we wore last night! Good heavens, man, look at your hair! You resemble a wild savage, Arthur Morgan!"
"Oh, come on, stop nagging, Dutch," Arthur grumbled, throwing his hands up in helpless surrender. He turned to leave, already halfway to the door. "I have to listen to you nag every damn day…"
"Oh, shit! Arthur!" Dutch roared, leaping from his chair, his face a mask of wounded dignity. "Do you no longer possess the courtesy to listen to me speak? Arthur, Arthur!"
But Arthur was already pushing the door open, making his escape. He had no patience for Dutch's endless harangues; perhaps only Miss O'Shea, with her saintly patience, could endure Dutch's constant prattling.
Time flowed onward. In the blink of an eye, the fateful morning of the 'VDL' Clothing Store's grand opening in Saint Denis arrived. All of Marko's transportable, eccentric equipment had been shipped by train to Valentine yesterday, a logistical marvel. Charles had driven the car back, a rumbling chariot destined to ferry the first fresh batch of clothes to the store. The other nine girls had gone with him, a whirlwind of activity, tasked with making the remaining three stores sparkle and shine for their official openings. Only the Valentine headquarters would boast another ribbon-cutting; the others would quietly, efficiently, open their doors.
As the sun, a shy, golden orb, crept over the eastern horizon, the 'VDL' Clothing Store was already a hive of furious anticipation. Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, John, Miss O'Shea, Mary-Beth, Mary, Jenny, and Karen—the entire, glorious, mismatched family of the Van der Linde Gang—stood proudly, immaculately dressed for the occasion.
The gentlemen, resplendent in their tailored suits, exuded a dangerous, rugged charm. Even old Hosea, with his silver hair and knowing eyes, managed to attract the delighted attention of several older ladies among the gathering crowd, who fanned themselves with a little more vigor.
And Mary-Beth, Jenny, and Karen, radiant in the very dresses that were about to take Saint Denis by storm, stood at the entrance, a dazzling, irresistible spectacle. Their beauty, and the revolutionary cut of their gowns, made them the undisputed center of attention on the entire street.
Passersby, utterly ignorant of the 'VDL' Clothing Store, instinctively veered towards the dazzling display, drawn like moths to a flame.
"Oh, God," a woman gasped, clutching her friend's arm, "the clothes these girls are wearing are simply exquisite! I have never, ever seen such styles before!"
"Oh, shit!" another exclaimed, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and sheer desire. "I have never seen such beautiful clothes! Look at these styles! And look at the eyes of those men! I'm certain they're all wishing they could just rip off every stitch of clothing on those girls! Shit! I must buy these clothes!" She practically vibrated with covetousness.
"So women's clothes can be this beautiful!" a third woman wailed, suddenly eyeing her own cumbersome, shapeless dress with utter disdain. "Oh, my God, what are these rags I'm wearing?! We women should wear such beautiful clothes! This is what a woman should truly look like!"
"Oh, why have I never seen such styles before?" a well-dressed lady murmured, her brow furrowed in baffled adoration. "'VDL' Clothing Store? Why have I never heard of such a brand before?
I think I might never escape the captivating trap of the 'VDL' Clothing Store again!" She sighed dramatically, already planning her next dozen purchases.
As the morning wore on, the crowd swelled, a sea of curious, eager faces. Well-off ladies, their initial curiosity evolving into a desperate yearning, simply could not tear themselves away. Some even dashed back home, dragging their bewildered best friends over to witness the fashion miracle.
The two captivated women would then stand side-by-side, their breath held, eagerly awaiting the moment the doors finally swung open.
Women's fashion in this era was a monotonous, suffocating affair. Even the grandest gowns of high society were essentially variations on the same tired European themes, bulky and uninspired.
From Dutch's perspective, this backwardness was a goldmine of opportunity. Any modern clothing style Dutch introduced was destined to explode into a massive fashion trend. And by unleashing seven revolutionary women's styles all at once, he hadn't just launched a brand; he'd detonated a fashion nuclear bomb.
At least for these women, these clothes were so exquisitely designed, so utterly unlike anything they had ever seen, that they felt like artifacts from another, more advanced, era.
Indeed, they were.
Therefore, Dutch's inevitable success was no longer a question. It was a foregone conclusion.