Chapter 151: Arthur’s True Strength
Molly was a pitiable woman—she had always loved Dutch deeply, yet Dutch clearly only treated her as a plaything.
Lately, Dutch had taken an interest in Mary Beth; after all, she didn’t look like a gang member at all, more like a young college student.
And she was young enough, without a man beside her.
Perhaps, deep down, the woman Dutch loved most was still Annabelle, the one killed by Colm.
“Oh, maybe we should start calling him Old Lecher Dutch, Arthur.”
“We’re all single here, and Dutch is eating from one bowl while eyeing the pot. That’s going a bit too far.”
“Alright, looks like we’re here, Arthur. See that wagon and the tent behind the house up ahead? That’s the Lemoyne Raiders’ temporary camp.”
“Let me count… only eight of them. How about four each? Let’s see if your shooting’s improved, Arthur.”
Davey said this while still in the saddle.
Their arrival had already alerted the Lemoyne Raiders, but the two didn’t bother to take it seriously.
Arthur replied, “Sure, why not? I want to see your shooting too, Davey.”
“Then let’s have ourselves a cowboy showdown.”
As they closed in on the Raiders’ temporary camp, several men had already drawn their guns and shouted a warning for Davey and Arthur to get lost.
The moment they stepped within range, Arthur and Davey drew their pistols almost simultaneously and opened fire.
Gunshots erupted one after another. When the dust settled, all eight men lay dead, each one shot clean through the head without a chance to fight back.
Before a Sharpshooter, ordinary gunmen were nothing more than chickens and stray dogs.
“Arthur, your shooting has improved unbelievably fast,” Davey said, unable to hide his amazement. Even from that brief exchange, he could feel how dramatically Arthur’s skill had surged.
By his own standards, Arthur had already reached the realm of Fivefold Speed Dead Eye mastery. Even with the advantage of his M1899 Pistol, Davey was only just able to keep up.
Which meant that, in real combat strength, Arthur had already surpassed Davey outright.
Such growth was absurd—clearly the blessing of a protagonist. Even Mac, after countless rounds dumped into practice, was still nowhere near mastering Fivefold Speed Dead Eye.
And Davey knew this wasn’t even Arthur’s limit. Without tuberculosis dragging him down, who knew whether Arthur’s willpower would transform again and push him to the terrifying Eightfold Speed.
But reaching Sixfold Speed was practically guaranteed.
And Sixfold Speed—back in the cowboy era—was the pinnacle of the pinnacle. In later times, that would put a man among ace agents, kings of gunfighters.
“Oh, Davey, I didn’t expect your shooting to get this good. That really surprised me.”
Arthur didn’t understand the concept of Dead Eye, but he could still sense Davey’s strength now stood shoulder to shoulder with his own.
After taking out the Lemoyne Raiders, Arthur dismounted to loot the bodies. He was always diligent like that—never turning his nose up at small gains. Davey, on the other hand, no longer cared about such scraps.
“These poor bastards… eight of them together don’t even make twenty bucks. Oh, Davey, it’s starting to feel like they actually did stash a lot of cash,” Arthur grumbled.
Davey answered, “Exploitation is everywhere, Arthur. I don’t think Shady Belle will disappoint you.”
Arthur shrugged. “Alright, let’s hope so.”
“There’s one more thing, Davey—about the O’Driscoll Gang. Micah and Pearson ran into some of their men while shopping in Rhodes.”
“Seems that Colm wants to talk peace. Fucking joke. Hosea thinks it’s a trap.”
“But that rat convinced Dutch to meet with Colm.”
“I really don’t get what Dutch is thinking. We already know where Colm’s camp is—why not just go in and take them out?”
Davey wasn’t surprised at all.
“Arthur, once they set a time, tell me. I’ve got a number of men coming in from Valentine. They might be useful.”
“If they pull anything, we’ll wipe them out together.”
“As for today, we take out the Lemoyne Raiders—but that’ll have to wait until nightfall. Easier to move then.”
Arthur nodded. “No problem, Davey. I need to head back to camp first, grab Lenny and Charles. We’ll meet at the saloon in Rhodes Town.”
Davey nodded and headed back to find Mac.
He wasn’t worried about raiding the Lemoyne Raiders’ base at Shady Belle.
In a skirmish with around fifty men—especially a surprise attack—the presence of a Sharpshooter was a total, absolute, one-sided crush.
Dead Eye didn’t just apply to revolvers—it worked the same with sniper rifles.
Slap on a 6x scope, activate Dead Eye, and a sniper became a walking massacre.
Davey would be part of the operation too, though mostly for cleaning up afterward. He also needed to have a few men haul the Maxim machine gun away by wagon.
Bringing Mac along was to keep him from drowning himself in booze every day, wasting away his gun skills and strength.
In the United States, in the West—whether now or in the future—there was no such thing as real safety. Only by staying strong could a man survive.
If someone couldn’t even handle a few dozen petty bandits, what business did they have dreaming about becoming something greater?
Besides, this batch of Lemoyne Raiders didn’t have any elite gunmen. The true White League elites weren’t here.
Those former Confederate elites who’d fought on real battlefields were mostly gathered around their leader, Lindsey Wofford.
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