The year was 1899. The era of the gunslinger and the outlaw had bled out, replaced by the suffocating stench of burgeoning capitalism and the distant rumble of the Great War to come. Even an outlaw like Arthur felt the dying currents of the Gilded Age wash over him.
In the desolate, snow-choked mountains of the wild west, survival was a brutal whisper.
"Oh, Dutch… my poor Dutch!" Jenny stumbled from the carriage, her cries tearing at the wind. Tears, hot at first, froze to ice shards on her face as the blizzard lashed out. Uncaring, she scooped accumulated snow into a wooden bucket, dragging it back inside to melt. Every drop of warm water was precious, used to gently wipe Dutch's still form. Her world had narrowed to this: the unconscious man, riddled with three bullets.
Mac, grim-faced and silent, rode at the rear of the carriage, a suffocating sorrow in his chest. Inside that oil tanker, Dutch had stood in the doorway, a human shield, holding their only escape route open for a terrifying thirty seconds. He was the man Mac had always seen as a mentor, a father. In their final, desperate moments, Dutch hadn't abandoned a single one of them. Like a true father, he'd faced the storm head-on, protecting his children.
"Poor old Dutch!" Uncle, huddled in his tattered cotton coat, looked utterly desolate. The visible worry etched on this camp parasite's face was unusual, and telling. He had to be worried. If Dutch, the very core of the Van der Linde Gang, truly died, their fragile family, coalesced around his charismatic force, would undoubtedly shatter.
Even Joe Zachary, now trapped within Dutch's body, couldn't deny it. Dutch's charisma was immense, a powerful magnet for these lost, emotionally immature souls. But this transmigration? It was a brutal, unforeseen twist.
Inside the rattling carriage, Joe—or rather, Dutch—lay still, feigning unconsciousness. Yet, his mind churned, overwhelmed by the sudden, terrifying reality.
In his previous life, he'd been playing Red Dead Redemption. His steam account was stolen, he'd died of pure rage, and then, in the blink of an eye, he'd awakened here, as Dutch. He'd landed just as the gang was fleeing with the Blackwater Town steamboat's stolen cash.
The Blackwater Town robbery had been a bloodbath so savage that, as the townsfolk themselves would say, it would take two decades for the town to recover. The ferocity of that battle had cost the gang two of its top fighters: Davey Callander and Mac Callander. And his transmigration? It had dropped him directly into the jaws of a Pinkerton and local government ambush.
To save the Van der Linde Gang, he'd taken three pistol bullets, just to silence the Pinkerton on that Maxim machine gun. It bought them precious time. He'd rescued Davey and Mac, even salvaged the one hundred fifty thousand dollars, before escaping into these unforgiving snowy mountains.
Now, Dutch feigned sleep in the relative warmth of the carriage, while the rest of the gang, under Hosea's grim command, dispersed into the blinding blizzard, searching for any scrap of temporary shelter.
"Poor Dutch. I wonder if my old friend can survive this ordeal," Hosea murmured to Arthur, his voice heavy with worry as he sat in the driver's seat of the lead carriage.
Arthur's face was a mask, but sorrow gnawed at him. "Perhaps he can," he responded, his voice rough. "Dutch… you know Dutch. He always makes the impossible possible, just like before. I believe in him!"
The pain was immense. Dutch was more than a leader; he was a father to Arthur and John. For Arthur, who'd never known paternal love, Dutch's death would be a crushing, irreparable blow.
Just then, a silhouette materialized from the swirling snow ahead.
"Hey, who's there?!" Arthur's hand shot to his gun, his instincts screaming. The biting cold had numbed his fingers, but the vigilance of a top gunslinger kept him razor-sharp.
"It's me, Javier!"
Javier, bundled in a thick cotton coat, his hair braided tight, rode out of the whiteout. He huffed, thick breaths steaming, shaking his hands to coax feeling back into his frozen fingers.
"Arthur, I found an abandoned village ahead. Maybe we can rest there for a while. You know that Dutch… Dutch… might not last much longer without a proper rest!"
"Let's go! You're right. Dutch needs a good rest."
The small convoy lumbered forward through the deepening snow, finally reaching the long-abandoned Ploughshare Village. Here, Hosea, the sole remaining strategist and the only leader left standing, took command, his voice steady despite the chaos.
"Ms. Grimshaw (Susan), can you and the ladies tidy up a house? Dutch will recover better inside. Javier, tie the horses in the stable; they won't last much longer in this heavy snow. Arthur, Mac, you two go find John, David, and Micah. I'm afraid they might be in danger out there." Hosea paused, his gaze hardening as he fixed on Arthur. "And Arthur… pay extra attention to Micah."
Like Arthur, Hosea had never truly liked Micah. In truth, few in the gang did. Only in the game had Jenny died, allowing Micah to brazenly spread the lie that they'd been intimate. Had Jenny lived, he wouldn't have dared utter a sound, even if she slapped him.
Arthur nodded, then spurred his horse, riding out with Mac into the relentless storm.