From a modern perspective, Hosea's vision seemed a bit narrow—but Dutch didn't hold it against him.
He didn't think Hosea was foolish. The man simply saw the world through the lens of his own time. Strip him of everything and drop him into a new era, and he'd likely just be another lamb waiting for the slaughter.
But Dutch? Dutch had stirred the waters of history.
He and his gang had already stepped outside the boundaries of ordinary men's ambitions.
And why? Because he'd been dropped here with a second chance.
With a chuckle, Dutch handed Hosea another sketch—this one a freshly drawn design for women's undergarments.
Hosea took it with a mix of confusion and caution, glanced at the paper… then sighed deeply.
"Oh, Dutch… I really don't know what the hell you're thinking, coming up with something like this. You really think anyone's gonna buy something like that?"
He held the drawing awkwardly, red in the face. It was a bra and panty set—nothing too scandalous by modern standards, but for 1899, it might as well have been witchcraft.
In most situations, a crude joke wouldn't faze Hosea. None of them were saints. But to discuss this seriously—to imagine marketing this—it made even the veteran conman squirm a little.
America was still deeply conservative. Feminism was just a whisper on the wind. Selling lingerie? That was pushing it.
Still… Dutch wasn't wrong. It wasn't just women who liked underwear. Men had their preferences too.
He didn't need to launch the most daring designs right away. Start modest. Slowly turn up the heat. Boil the frog one degree at a time.
Most folks thought the bra was invented by the French designer Paul Poiret in 1907, but his version looked more like a man's vest. It wasn't until later—after Lierde's three-point swimsuit—that the modern bra began to take form.
And as far as Dutch knew? Bras didn't exist in this world yet. Ms. O'Shea had certainly never heard of them.
"Hahaha! Hosea, if you were thirty again, wouldn't you buy something like this for Bessie?"
Hosea turned redder than a campfire ember. "Dutch, c'mon now… you know better than to ask me that out loud."
Dutch grinned, eyes glinting with that old spark of leadership. His confidence filled the room.
"Well then, Hosea—don't you think these designs have the potential to change the game?"
There it was—that magnetic charisma. Even when Dutch's plans bordered on madness, there was always something persuasive in his voice. Something you wanted to believe in.
And this time, Hosea didn't just hear sweet talk. He saw tangible ideas. A future that wasn't built on blood and bullets.
"Dutch… I never thought I'd live to see it. A real future for the gang. I'm happy. Damn happy." Hosea's voice cracked slightly.
"You know, Arthur, John, Jack… David, Lenny, Sean—they've always felt like sons to me. I was so scared they'd all meet a bad end." He smiled softly. "But now…"
He didn't need to say more.
The old tensions between Hosea and Dutch—the disagreements over Blackwater, over Cornwall—those had started to fade.
But then, Hosea paused. A thought troubled him.
"Dutch… I don't doubt these clothes'll sell, but once they do, what's to stop others from copying 'em? Won't that ruin our business?"
Dutch puffed his cigar, exhaled slow and calm, and shook his head.
"Counterfeits are inevitable, Hosea. But we don't need to fight them head-on. We'll control the market by releasing new styles constantly. Keep our name fresh in everyone's mouths."
He tapped the stack of sketches beside him.
"One release at a time. Keep people hungry. We create a brand. A name that means luxury, status, prestige. Even if someone sells knockoffs for half the price, they'll still want ours—because ours makes 'em feel like nobles. Like they're somebody."
Dutch leaned forward, voice lowering with intensity.
"Now here's the real trick—we link our brand to something bigger. To something society's not ready for yet."
He smiled.
"To women."
Hosea furrowed his brow. "To women? I've seen those suffragettes in Blackwater. You really think they'll help us sell petticoats and brassieres?"
Dutch laughed.
"Hosea… have you ever seen what happens when a hungry mob finds someone who finally offers them a seat at the table? These women… they're beaten down, ignored, tossed aside. They ain't got work. Ain't got rights. Hell, some of 'em are out sellin' their bodies just to feed their families."
Dutch's tone hardened.
"But if we give them real work—decent work, dignified work—then we give them power. And when they get power, they'll give us votes. Support. Influence."
Hosea looked at him like he'd grown two heads.
"Votes? Dutch, women can't even vote yet."
"Not yet," Dutch said, smiling wider. "But they will. Sooner than anyone expects. And when that happens, guess who they'll remember?"
He leaned back, eyes glinting with quiet triumph.
"We won't just be selling clothes. We'll be selling opportunity. Hope. Power."
Hosea sighed and shook his head.
"You've changed, Dutch. And I don't know if it's for the better… but I'll go with you. You get us to Horseshoe Overlook, and I'll follow you wherever this crazy plan leads."
Dutch reached out, resting a hand on his old friend's shoulder.
"It's alright, Hosea. You'll see it. Once we reach town, I'll take you and Arthur into the heart of it. Then you'll understand."
As Hosea sat quietly, processing everything, Dutch looked out the window at the snow-covered plains beyond.
This was 1899. The Great War hadn't happened yet. Women's suffrage was still years away. But Dutch saw it all coming.
If he could give women real employment—an income equal to men's—he could speed that change along. Raise their place in society. And in doing so, gain the allegiance of half the population.
Politicians wouldn't dare ignore them once votes were on the table.
And in that web of favors, power, and status?
Dutch van der Linde would be king.
The King of Guarma. The King of America. The world's greatest arms dealer. All wrapped in silk and steel.
He smiled.
In the original story, Arthur Morgan was the friend of widows and the protector of the weak.
But in this new life?
Dutch would become the true voice of women.