While the Van der Linde Gang luxuriated in the sweet nectar of newfound freedom and burgeoning prosperity, the O'Driscoll Gang, those miserable, perpetually mud-splattered rivals, were truly enduring a hellish, eye-gouging, soul-crushing nightmare.
"SHT! SHT! SH*T! May the deepest pits of perdition swallow Cornwall whole! How DARE that corporate weasel treat me like a common stable boy?!" Colm, the perpetually enraged leader of the O'Driscolls, was currently a living, breathing volcano of fury, venting his bile by viciously snapping his whip across the backs of his cowering subordinates, each crack echoing his impotent rage.
Even though Dutch and his fancy-pants crew had turned their snowy mountain stronghold into a glorified snow globe, they hadn't actually snagged the coveted train robbery map, nor had they performed the robbery itself. No, that particular delight fell into the grimy hands of Colm, who, upon returning to the wreckage, gleefully scooped up the opportunity.
While Dutch and his band of merry escape artists were busy admiring the scenic vistas on their way to Horseshoe Overlook, Colm, with all the grace of a drunken bear, successfully led his band of misfits to hijack Mr. Cornwall's train. They didn't just rob it; they butchered everyone on board, then, in a stroke of utter depravity (or perhaps entrepreneurial genius, depending on your perspective), systematically dismantled the entire luxury carriage for scrap. Who knew gilded lavatories and velvet curtains fetched such a good price?
The train robbery had netted Colm a cool five thousand dollars, a sum that should have had him doing a jig and buying everyone a round of questionable whiskey. But, alas, before he could even properly warm his hands with the ill-gotten gains for two measly days, his stronghold was ambushed, swarmed by a horde of gunmen.
With the cunning assistance of some spectacularly disloyal gang members inside ,talk about a bad performance review, they systematically obliterated countless large and small O'Driscoll hideouts, whittling down Colm's already dim-witted manpower by more than half!
Colm, unable to digest such an insult ,or, more likely, too stubborn to run, led a desperate counter-ambush, demanding answers from the gunmen who had dared to interrupt his misery. The shocking revelation? They were, surprise, surprise, sent by Mr. Cornwall himself, the very man whose train had recently suffered a rather thorough redecoration. Which, naturally, led to the current, highly un-fun situation.
One might, quite reasonably, conclude that Colm was dumber than a sack of hammers. Dutch's gang, those slick operators, had escaped Cornwall's wrath because they were a lean, mean, sharpshooting machine. They wisely, left the train untouched. For Mr. Cornwall, it was merely a bruised ego, a minor inconvenience, like a gnat in his caviar.
Colm, however, was a master class in self-sabotage. He didn't just rob the train and take the bonds; he massacred everyone and then, for good measure, gutted the luxury carriage like a prize hog. This wasn't just slapping Mr. Cornwall's face; this was a full-frontal assault, a bold statement in public defecation directly upon his very expensive, very polished head!
The O'Driscolls, were about as subtle as a bull in a porcelain shop. Thus, they became the unsuspecting recipients of Cornwall's full, unadulterated fury, leaving Colm scrambling for cover faster than a politician caught in a lie.
"SH*T! DAMN CORNWALL! We only robbed one measly train! These insufferable capitalists are always so petty! Always so disgustingly… rich!" Colm howled, punctuating each word with another brutal lash across the subordinate's back.
"AHHH…!" The poor wretch wailed, only serving to fan the flames of Colm's already scorching agitation.
"SH*T! SH*T! SH*T!" Colm roared, his voice cracking with desperation.
Just then, the merciful sound of hoofbeats echoed from outside. "Colm, Colm, we're back!" Johnson, Colm's perpetually optimistic (and perhaps slightly masochistic) second-in-command, burst through the makeshift door. Due to Cornwall's relentless hounds, they were still hunkered down in the snowy mountains, a secluded, frostbitten hollow serving as their latest, desperate sanctuary.
Hearing Johnson's voice, Colm's head snapped up, his bloodshot eyes gleaming with a manic anxiety. "How is it, Johnson?! Are Cornwall's bloodhounds still sniffing at our heels?!"
A flicker of genuine delight illuminated Johnson's face, a rare sight amidst the O'Driscoll gloom. "They're not searching anymore, sir! Not actively, anyway! Their message carriers are still lurking in the towns, but I reckon we just need to keep our dirty boots out of sight, and they'll never suspect us!" Then, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes wide. "But sir, I just stumbled upon some exhilarating news in Strawberry!"
Colm finally exhaled, a ragged gasp of relief. Cornwall's goons retreating was music to his ears. Truth be told, it wasn't Cornwall's private security goons that terrified him. The small strongholds were wiped out because of sheer numbers and surprise attacks. In a fair fight, even against Cornwall's endless supply of warm bodies, they could hold their own, preventing the fat cat from getting too arrogant.
No, what truly made Colm sweat through his already damp clothes were the Pinkerton Detectives and, even worse, the West Elizabeth officers ,for some reason, those West Elizabeth types just had to be different and call Pinkertons 'officers'. Thanks to Dutch's flamboyant bloodbath in Blackwater, a true masterpiece of collateral damage, law enforcement had gone on a rampage in West Elizabeth, scattering gangs like autumn leaves in a hurricane.
This, conveniently, explained why Colm and his sorry lot were freezing their rear ends off in the snowy mountains in the first place. Therefore, the real fear was Cornwall dragging the Pinkertons and the 'officers' into their little quarrel. That was why they were hiding.
Hearing Johnson promise "exciting news," Colm's curiosity, a rare bloom in his bitter heart, was piqued. His eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. "Exciting news? Don't tell me you found a half-eaten sandwich! What news, Johnson?"
Johnson, beaming like a lottery winner, gesticulated wildly as he spilled the beans gathered from the Strawberry moonshine black market. "Sir, I heard from a very drunk man that a brand-spanking-new clothing factory has sprouted up like a cursed mushroom in that little ranch tucked between south Valentine and east Strawberry! They say over a hundred sewing machines were hauled in by train, sir! A hundred! The whole damn lot is supposedly worth a staggering, jaw-dropping TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS!"
Johnson's eyes were practically bugging out of his head, shining with visions of ill-gotten fabric. Colm, a man rarely moved by anything less than extreme violence or large sums of money, bolted upright, grabbing Johnson's shoulders with both hands, shaking him like a ragdoll. "Are you telling me the TRUTH, you blithering idiot?!"
"Absolutely, sir! Every glorious, dollar-sign-shaped word! I even rode to Valentine myself to sniff around, and it's true! There is such a factory! And the owner? Some fellow named Mr. Arthur, Arthur Callahan! Never heard of him! Probably some small-time chump, which is even better! I didn't go inside, sir, wouldn't want to alert them, you know, being careful and all." Johnson replied with unshakeable certainty, practically bouncing with glee.
"Good! Good! GOOD! You did perfectly, Johnson! Perfectly! We're going to be swimming in cash this time! And Arthur Callahan, never heard of the pathetic little worm, which is splendid! Alright, Johnson, immediately start counting the men... No, no, no, hold on! We need to be prepared, or we won't be able to haul all those glorious sewing machines! The loss would be catastrophic! Tell you what, you go right now and rustle up some wagons! Find a nearby, secluded spot, too! Then, we'll pay a little visit to that damned factory!"
Colm paced back and forth, a maniacal grin stretching his face, muttering and plotting his grand scheme. He looked like a mad scientist who'd just discovered the secret to eternal villainy. "Very good, very good! Ten thousand dollars! This is simply, exquisitely, ridiculously incredible luck! We still have sixty-seven men! I'm positive we can simply stroll in and take that factory without breaking a sweat! Johnson, what are you waiting for?! Get ready!"
"Yes, sir!" Johnson, practically vibrating with excitement, jogged out of the room, leaving Colm to bask in his delusions of grandeur.