The rat was dead. Just like that.
Micah Bell, traitor and parasite, had finally met the end he deserved. Some claimed Arthur later returned to Plowshare Village, trudging through those quiet, snow-laced woods just to see the place one last time. The story went that half of Micah's skull had been gnawed clean by wolves.
Dutch didn't mourn. He had no time for ghosts.
They were heading east now—toward Horseshoe Overlook—a familiar camp, but this time with a new mission. Dutch himself had changed. No longer just an outlaw on the run; he was a visionary laying bricks for something greater.
Blackwater was lost. New Austin too. The past could stay buried beneath its gunpowder and graves. The future? That lay where industry and politics converged,Saint Denis, the seat of culture, commerce, and power.
"Rhodes is a powder keg," Dutch had told Hosea on the ride. "Too many snakes pretending to be gentlemen. We'll steer clear—for now."
He had his eye on Shady Belle in the long term. Its proximity to Saint Denis made it a strategic foothold. Women's rights were stirring in the East—whispers in parlors, pamphlets on street corners. Dutch intended to tie their cause to his.
A clothing store was only the beginning. He envisioned something more radical: a coalition of the overlooked. Women, veterans, even freedmen from Blackwater's fringes—all joined under one banner. Mutual aid. Shared power. A movement.
Was it idealistic? Of course. But every revolution needed ideals to mask its ambitions.
And Dutch had ambition in spades.
It began with Ms. Dorothea—a socialite in Saint Denis known for hosting salons with rising thinkers and councilmen. Winning her over meant gaining access. If he could charm her, maybe Guarma wouldn't be just a hideout—it could become a legal enterprise.
Guarma was in flux. Officially, the U.S. had claimed it in the Spanish-American War of 1898. Unofficially, Fusar still ruled parts of it like a warlord. Dutch saw opportunity in that chaos. The island's remoteness, its lack of federal oversight—it was perfect. A fortress. A factory. A future capital.
And if the Wright brothers hadn't yet taken flight, maybe Dutch could be the first to take the sky. With enough gold, who needed them?
But all that lay ahead.
For now, they reached Horseshoe Overlook.
In-game, Dutch had once thought Clemens Point was more beautiful. But standing here now, watching the mist roll off the cliffside and the sun carve gold through the trees, he had to admit: Horseshoe had a kind of raw majesty.
The forest cloaked them in safety. The distant river glimmered with promise. The only drawback was the occasional train whistle from the nearby tracks—but even that, Dutch mused, felt like the heartbeat of progress.
"Arthur, get that crate down—careful with the stitching!"
"Javier! We're out of feed. Grab John and ride into town, would you?"
"Mr. Pearson, if I don't smell stew in five minutes, I swear you'll be eating your apron!"
Aunt Susan's voice rang out like a battle cry. The camp buzzed with motion: crates unloaded, tents raised, laughter and bickering alike.
Dutch didn't lift a finger. He waited, calmly seated in his tent, watching the gang fall into rhythm. He would act once everything was in place. For now, he was thinking—planning. A trip to Valentine was next, to assess the market. He needed real-world comparisons for the fashion line.
Once the camp was built, he emerged and clapped his hands.
"Gentlemen! Ladies! Gather round!"
They stopped what they were doing. Even those on watch trickled back, drawn in by Dutch's charisma as surely as if he were a preacher at the pulpit.
Dutch smiled at the faces before him—familiar, loyal, battered by the road yet still standing tall.
"My friends," he said, arms open wide, "look around. Look at what we've built. Not just this camp,but this family."
"We've been tested. Hunted. Betrayed. But here we are. Breathing. Dreaming. And damn it—thriving."
His voice rose.
"Yes, I made mistakes. Yes, the world is changing. But now, so are we. And today marks a new chapter—not just for our gang, but for our place in history."
Cheers echoed through the trees. Dutch's words were still laced with the same theatricality as ever, but now they rang truer. His vision wasn't just survival anymore, it was transformation.
"Hosea, Arthur, David, you're with me. We ride to Valentine. It's time to scout the market, see what this town's got to offer."
He turned to the others.
"Mac, Bill—you guard the camp. No heroics. No robberies. We're men of dignity now."
Then he looked at the rest of the gang.
"Those of you without jobs, explore. Talk to people. Offer help to widows, to war vets, to the forgotten. Build our name in kindness, not fear."
"Ladies, go find what's fashionable. What sells. Bring it back to me and we'll learn from it."
He turned to Grimshaw. "Distribute a hundred dollars to each person. Let them breathe a little."
"Mr. Strauss," Dutch added, his tone sharp, "no more loans. We're done scrounging. We're building something real now."
He swung into the saddle of The Count, who snorted proudly.
As they rode toward Valentine, Dutch felt something shift—not just in the camp, but in himself.
He wasn't just chasing a dream anymore.
He was shaping it.