The two police officers stood, wide-eyed with awe. A startling thought flickered through their minds: Why wasn't Mr. Dutch their sheriff? If such a generous gentleman held the reins of authority, their lives would ascend to levels unimaginable.
"Alright, gentlemen, I'm stepping inside to attend to some matters. I trust you'll enjoy my hospitality." Dutch offered a charming smile, a nod to the two officers.
"Oh, please, Mr. Arthur, go right ahead!" the officers responded in unison, like eager, disciplined lackeys.
Dutch and Hosea turned towards the Veteran Club. Hosea, however, remained utterly bewildered, a man adrift in a sea of disbelief. He leaned closer to Dutch, his voice a hushed, incredulous whisper. "Oh, Dutch, I can barely fathom… when did we acquire such towering status here? Is this truly our life now? Shouldn't we be a band of desperate outlaws, feared by every soul? But look! Look at the worship, the sheer respect in their eyes! Oh, Dutch, I cannot comprehend it! Our lives have transformed into this… this astonishing state in mere days!"
"Oh, believe me, Hosea," Dutch chuckled, leading the way into the club, a glint of triumph in his eyes. "Our lives will undergo even more profound transformations. Every member of our gang will become renowned, their names whispered in awe. Even little Jack, when he ventures out, will have a retinue of influential figures leading his horse for him! Hehehehe…"
Hosea remained rooted at the doorway, his gaze sweeping back to the two adoring police officers behind him. He watched them for a long moment, then muttered softly, a profound conviction settling in his voice: "Oh, Dutch, this time… this time I truly believe you!"
As Dutch stepped into the Veteran Club, the scene within unfurled before his eyes. The club itself was modest, roughly the size of a small Valentine saloon, yet it overflowed with men. They huddled in clusters, their voices a low murmur of conversation, puffing on the low-grade cigarettes and sipping the inferior liquor provided by the club. Yet, their eyes were narrowed in profound contentment, as if savoring an unparalleled delicacy. For them, it truly was a feast beyond compare.
Most of these men were not old; the majority appeared to be in their forties, some even younger, in their thirties. A handful of truly aged veterans dotted the room, but they were few. America's veterans, those who returned from the battlefields mutilated or shattered, received abysmal treatment. They barely clung to life in their youth, and once their bodies began to fail, death usually claimed them within a month or two.
The plight of veterans had always been a contentious issue in America. On the battlefield, the hidden capitalists needed their bodies, so their basic needs—food, shelter, clothing, transport—were meticulously provided. But once they retired, their utility exhausted, they were utterly abandoned.
It was 1899. America, a nascent empire, was in the throes of its ascent, its conflicts with older powers growing increasingly fierce. Its previous territorial expansions had already sparked intense clashes with various old empires, and now, it rested in a fleeting, fragile calm. The number of retired veterans was astronomical.
The game's portrayal offered only a glimpse; in reality, every village, every town, every sprawling city like Saint Denis, teemed with beggars, broken and limbless, their bodies a testament to forgotten wars. Even physically sound veterans often suffered from deep-seated mental illnesses after the horrors of war, crippling their lives. The lucky few with families fared slightly better, but those without simply awaited death. Even less severe cases were problematic; mental scars inevitably affected social interactions, rendering better jobs impossible. They were left to compete for manual labor with undocumented immigrants and black people, barely a few years emancipated.
Normally, merely surviving, eating enough, and staying warm were considered immense blessings. The sheer fortune of a little alcohol and a cigarette was unimaginable. And now, this newly opened Veteran Club in Valentine, seemingly materializing from thin air, offered them not a complete solution, but a glimmer of hope.
After a grueling day's work, they could find solace here, sharing cheap liquor, confessing their grievances about the country to fellow veterans. The quality of their lives, however grim, improved dramatically. And those utterly destitute, unable to even afford food, could find rough, hard-to-swallow, yet perfectly adequate, bread here. Sometimes, they might even get a handful of beans and a sip of liquor, ensuring their very survival.
Therefore, they harbored profound gratitude for the Valentine Veteran Club, and held its unseen owner in reverence, like a God. After all, no actual God had ever truly filled their bellies.
At that moment, as Dutch pushed open the club door, the cacophony of conversation within ceased. The veterans, almost instinctively, turned their heads. It wasn't that they recognized Dutch as the owner, but rather a strange symptom from their battlefield days. They would instantly notice the slightest shift in their environment, a survival mechanism that, in normal life, became a curse. No owner, after all, enjoyed being stared at like a wild beast the moment they walked in.
Dutch, however, was unfazed. His life as a desperado was no different; such gazes were his constant companion.
"Oh ho ho, gentlemen, my boss is here! The owner behind the Valentine Veteran Club is here! Your benefactor is here! Dear gentlemen, won't you join me in welcoming our patron!" Trelawny, who had been sitting among the crowd, immediately sprang to his feet, a wide, theatrical smile on his face. He threw his arms wide, cheering.
At Trelawny's pronouncement, the veterans' wary gazes dissolved instantly. A collective gasp, then a surge, as they rose from their seats, eager to express their overwhelming gratitude for Dutch's benevolence.
"Oh, dear sir, your kindness has granted me a place of comfort. Please allow me to offer you my highest respect!"
"Oh, so this is Mr. Callahan? Oh, dear Mr. Callahan, I will forever remember your kindness!"
"Oh, Mr. Arthur, thank you, thank you for your help to us! This damned country… we gave it everything, and in the end, even our survival became a question. Only you extended help to us during the darkest hour of our lives. Oh, my God, I don't even know how to express my gratitude to you!"
Dutch, a gentle smile on his face, looked at the excited, almost frantic veterans, who wished they could prostrate themselves before him then and there. He extended both hands, pressing them downwards, and declared in a booming voice:
"Alright, gentlemen, thank you for your gratitude. However, your lives are still difficult; a mere flicker of warmth has been added to your hardships. But I do not want you to live in hardship forever!"
"Whoa!" As Dutch's words, imbued with a powerful, calculated compassion, rang out, the crowd of retired veterans erupted in a deafening roar. What is salvation? THIS is salvation! When all others had abandoned them, when every other proprietor had sought only to oppress them, when life itself had forced them to their knees, there was finally someone who stepped forward, offering them not just hope for survival, but a path to rescue them from their misery! If he wasn't Jesus born again, then who in the hell was he?!