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He hadn’t anticipated this.
Dutch clutched his bandana to his face to offer some relief against the unrelenting dust pummeling him and the Count. He feared Tumbleweed’s law enforcement was closing in on them, and so he didn’t dare make his steed slow to ensure that Javier was still in his vicinity. The Van Der Linde gang’s robbery of the train travelling from Benedict Point to Mercer Station went perfectly smoothly, as far as train robberies went at least. Gunfighting ensued as he, Arthur, Javier, John, Mac, and Sean were caught by Tumbleweed’s lawmen as they finished taking what they could from the carriages and passengers. By the time they’d made it to Benedict Pass, the men were forced to break into their separate directions earlier than planned, and so Dutch and Javier were to ride northeast through Cholla Springs until just before Twin Rocks. However, having to fight off lawmen just as heavy amounts of sand picked up made it increasingly hard to keep with that plan. Dutch had no choice but ride along the increasingly higher path to New Austin’s mountain range, without Javier. No matter. He was a man of hope, and faith of a certain sense. He and his family had performed numerous robberies like this, and in the two decades they had, they escaped the rope time and time again. Tumbleweed’s lawmen would be stupid to pursue him in these conditions. However, it was approaching nightfall and he was alone as far as he could tell, and that made him especially nervous.
Dutch continued to ride hard, forcing the Count to strain on the rocky, largely unkempt road to what he at least thought to be the northeast mountains of New Austin.
One minute or so later, Dutch found himself flung forward off the horse and onto the unforgiving rocks and boulders on the path. The unforgiving force of the dust from behind seemed like a force intending on making sure the infamous outlaw would be plunged into the numerous jagged rocks ahead and below.
He was launched forward, bracing himself as best as he could for the dangers unknown to him by the dimming light of dusk and the thick dust particles.
He hit the ground and rolled off to the side of the rocky, sloping mountain. He had the horrible feeling that he was going to roll off the side of the mountain, but the force at which he was knocked to the ground and, subsequently, rocks had incapacitated him. Before he fell off to the treacherous hillside, the hand of dark figure securely grabbed him by the arm. Another hand now rested on Dutch’s back to brace him as the unknown figure stood him up.
Out of the immediate danger of the boulders, Dutch realized he was badly damaged from being pelted and rolling on the hard, rock-laden surface. His back and legs ached nearly too much to walk. His forehead and right cheek felt warm and wet as Dutch imagined he tasted blood.
“T-thank you!” Dutch spluttered out to the kind individual, his head lowered to avoid the dust. The man responded with a pat on his back. Dutch needed to mount up again and get to Twin Rocks, but he couldn’t yet do it in these conditions, be it the dust storm or the injuries he just sustained. He needed a moment to get ahold of himself.
The man held onto Dutch, and trekked with him to a small building off the path opposite of the large rocks Dutch had almost just busted his head on.
He threw the door open, and sat Dutch down on a wooden crate used as a seat. Dutch took the time to wipe the sand and the warm blood from his eyes. He heard the door creak shut and his eyes adjusted to the soft light of the lantern his rescuer had just lit. The man who had likely saved his life was …unusual to be hanging around the margins of New Austin, he thought, particularly with that immaculate, black clothing he wore. The man wore a black, three-piece suit, a top hat, and possessed a well-trimmed, black moustache and sideburns. This sharply dressed man sat on a crate adjacent to Dutch, setting the lantern on the crate with him. The light between them allowed Dutch to examine this man’s face. He couldn’t decide whether the look on his face contained deep sadness or cool professionalism.
“Sir, I am indebted to you… “, Dutch paused, “had you not come along at that point, I probably would have been dead and bloody on those …damnable rocks!”
“Yes. And perhaps in the future you won’t be lucky.”
Dutch sat taken aback by the man’s response.
“…Indeed.”
The man in black stretched his arms, as if the entire situation were mundane.
“What do you call yourself, friend?” The man’s tone of voice warmed up with this question.
“My name is David Brennan, friend, and how about you?”
“I asked what you called yourself, not your name. I know your name,” the man countered, now with a tone suddenly as cold as ice.
Dutch clenched his firsts in anxiety.
“Oh. Then just why would you ask me?”
“Out of curiosity.”
There was an awkward silence as Dutch thought of how to continue more gracefully.
“Where are we?”
The well-dressed man didn’t bother answering the bloody and haggard man’s question. “Nearby there’s a little house owned by family of honest ranchers. Nice little young family. A husband and wife. Two daughters and a son. They’re due for some guests shortly.” The man stared at nothing in particular. He turned to Dutch, and with a cold expression explained, “they own this shack.”
“And where are we?” Dutch tried again, mildly annoyed.
“A way’s way from where you’d want to be, Dutch.”
Out of instinct, Dutch swiftly picked his firearm out of its holster, cocked it, and faced it straight at the man’s temple.
“Your hands up!” The man in black complied, no change in his face to indicate apprehension.
“I do not wish to be doing this, friend.”
“Why wouldn’t you, Dutch? You’ve killed people with far less hesitation than with me.”
Dutch gripped the handle of his revolver in quiet irritation, pressing it against the well-dressed man’s head. It was fully night now, and the lantern light illuminated the gun and the man’s face against the black clothing he wore.
“Now, I have done many bad things in my life, but do not assume that I am one to shoot fellers unnecessarily. ”
“You look like a man of spontaneity. As free and as unconstrained as the wind when you took the moment to shoot Daniel Myers before acting on your planned route of escape. You strike me as a man who adapts to sudden change. For instance, when your meaning of ‘necessary’ changes.”
“My friend, you are in no position to press me!”, the words left his mouth in a quiet yell.
“No. No I am not, and you’ve made sure of that.”
Dutch didn’t know how, but this man simply speaking made him feel less in control. He immediately decided it was the strange man’s collected demeanor, and his smooth manner of speech. He had to admire that about him.
Dutch took a moment to search the man’s pockets. If he didn’t have a weapon on him, perhaps he at least had money or a sellable item. He looked like he could afford to be robbed. Strangely, the man had absolutely nothing in any of the pockets he checked. Not even a handkerchief or a watch.
A moment passed before the man held at gunpoint again spoke.
“…Do you like disorder, Mr. van der Linde?”
What? This man already had the audacity to inform Dutch that he knew his identity, after he was already in hot water from a fucking train robbery. He didn’t want to silence the sharply dressed man. He was a murderer, but he wasn’t a thug who killed innocent people when he wasn’t forced to.
“Let me change the question. How much do you like death?”
“Why.. would you ask that, sir?, Dutch asked, trying greatly to hide his confusion by the man, “Listen, all is not what you read in the paper.”
“Why would I assume that?”, the man plainly stated as his hands remained in Dutch’s sight, “You just searched my pockets for valuables, and you have a gun to my head.”
Dutch gave a forced chuckle as he tried to resume control of the conversation, relying on his charisma to make it seem diffusing and genuine while harboring an anger that was ready to boil to the top.
“Quite the impression I’m making! Listen, John Doe. It’s like I said. We ain’t what we’re portrayed as by newspapers and lawmen. We are not the O’Driscoll boys. You ever heard of them? Nasty sons o’ bitches. Animals. I ain’t wanting to kill you. But I am needing to take these unfortunate precautions.”
“I am fully aware you’re not Colm O’Driscoll. You’re Dutch Van der Linde.”
Dutch braced himself for whatever the man was saying next, silently seething at this man who thought he was entitled to pass judgement on the man with a gun to this temple.
“Dutch van der Linde, who took dozens of lonesome, lost souls into his camp, and shielded them from.. the terror and utter savagery of forces opposing the natural order he lives to protect. Dutch van der Linde, who taught young Arthur, and John, to read and write, while assuring they know how to rob a man blind and shoot him should he give them enough trouble. The man who knows right and wrong and decides right and wrong. The man who just in Benedict Pass killed the sheriff of a dinky little town to prove that he is, in fact, better than him and this country’s own gunmen alike.”
In one second, the sound of Dutch’s jamming gun against the man’s head filled the dark shack.
The strange man loudly exhaled a sigh.
“Hmm…I see.”
It all happened in an instant. He pulled away his gun from the man’s temple contemplating what he had just failed to do before returning it to the holster on his hip. The man lowered his hands.
The man suddenly stood up from his crate, barely in the lantern’s light.
“You didn’t take notice, Mr. van der Linde, but that little house and that little family is actually in close proximity to this shed. They would heard your gun fire, and you would have had a few minutes at most to consider how best to diffuse the confrontation when they came to investigate.”
The strange man’s sharp black suit was immaculate in spite of the dust and the shack, which Dutch couldn’t help but find very odd. They were in a dirty wooden shack, having just escaped a dust storm outside, and yet this strange man’s three piece suit was in perfect condition. Dutch quickly left his seat, light-headed though he was. He unholstered his other revolver swiftly.
“Just what do you want, sir? Why did you bring me here?!” Dutch demanded, as he cocked and pointed the firearm the man standing a few feet from him, aiming at no particular part of his figure.
“You had to get out of the dust and away from the side of the hill. It was only the least I could do.”
“No. Answer my damn question for once, fool!” Dutch’s voice broke slightly, as it was prone to whenever he shouted.
“Better get that head wound cleaned up, Dutch. It makes you unpresentable.” The man walked the door on the opposite side of the shack, apparently in the direction of the family that owned it. He stopped and turned to Dutch.
“I have the funniest feeling we’ll see each other again.”
“And what then? I finally lodge a bullet into your head?”
“Entertain my question until then.”
“And why should I be doin’ that?”
“Oh, you know. Maybe it’s a question you’ll have an answer to.”
The wooden door creaked open and shut as the man in the three-piece suit exited, and Dutch was left standing in the dimming light of the lantern against the pitch blackness of the shack. He holstered his second revolver as the door shut, sensing then that there was no one on the opposite side of it.