Chapter 241: Bronte’s Trap
Bronte was quite satisfied with Dutch’s response.
If Dutch still had a good relationship with Davey, then Dutch would be of no use to him at all.
Of course, the best possible outcome would be for Dutch—once part of the same gang—to turn against Davey, or even end up fighting him outright. That would benefit Bronte the most.
“Mr. Van der Linde, I believe you,” Bronte said calmly.
“After all, Mr. Land has been in Saint Denis for quite some time now, yet I’ve hardly heard him mention you.”
“Of course, these are trivial matters and won’t affect our friendship.”
“Don’t be fooled by how many people are cozying up to him at this banquet. They’re all here for his share of the moonshine.”
“And basic courtesy, of course.”
“There is one thing you said that’s absolutely right—here, I have far more friends than Land does.”
Bronte was confident, and not without reason. Unlike Davey, who had only recently arrived in Saint Denis, Bronte had spent years building a vast network here.
Many of those people were bound to him by deep, shared interests.
Take Saint Denis Police Chief Benjamin, for example. That connection alone gave Bronte far greater armed strength in many situations.
At the very least, incidents like what happened in Rhodes—where his men were ambushed and suffered heavy losses—could never occur in Saint Denis.
Bronte knew Davey and his people were formidable, but this was Saint Denis.
Hearing Bronte’s words, Dutch gained a much clearer understanding of how things stood in the city.
As things were now, Bronte’s power was unquestionably the greatest in Saint Denis.
Bronte had a servant bring over fine cigars and champagne, then began pointing out figures below as he spoke to Dutch.
“See that pitiful fellow standing closest to Land? Yes, that’s the mayor himself, Henri Lemieux.”
“For money, they’ll do anything—anything at all.”
Dutch agreed wholeheartedly. After traveling across so many parts of the country, he had seen plenty of this himself.
“Politics is a dirty business.”
Bronte nodded.
“That’s right. Oh, and that one over there—Alberto Fussar. He owns a sugarcane plantation on one of the nearby islands.”
“He loves attending banquets like this, showing up in that general’s uniform covered in medals, just for fun.”
“And that man there—Hobart Crawley, a Confederate major who fought in the Civil War.”
“People all call him a great hero. The woman beside him is his young wife.”
“Young mistresses are common here, but a young wife? That’s another matter altogether.”
“Oh, oh, look at those Indian redskins. I don’t feel the slightest pity for them. Anyone stupid enough to believe those hypocrites in the federal government deserves to be fooled.”
“So they’ve only got themselves to blame for how things turned out, don’t they?”
Bronte laughed loudly, and the people around him—including Dutch—laughed along.
From Bronte’s words alone, Dutch could clearly feel his standing.
This was a man who didn’t even bother to take the mayor seriously.
After briefly introducing several people, Bronte fell silent. His gaze shifted toward a corner of the banquet hall, and his expression grew noticeably more serious, drawing Dutch’s attention.
“And over there—that’s Hector Fellowes, a self-important newspaper owner.”
After finishing the introduction, Bronte turned to Dutch with a half-joking tone.
“Maybe one day you could kill him for me?”
It was a test—Bronte testing Dutch.
Dutch understood exactly what he meant.
But Dutch still had his own ideals and principles. After only a brief hesitation, he refused.
“Well… we’re not professional killers,” he said.
“At least not people who murder for no reason.”
Bronte was clearly displeased by the answer.
He had assumed that outlaws like Dutch would do anything, as long as the price was right.
“I didn’t realize you were so particular,” Bronte said coldly.
“Unwilling to help a friend out.”
His tone worsened. If Dutch wasn’t even willing to kill an unrelated newspaper owner, then there was no chance he’d agree to kill Davey.
To Bronte, that made Dutch and his people seem increasingly useless.
Dutch hurried to explain.
“Oh, I’d be more than willing to help ease your troubles,” he said. “I just need a legitimate reason.”
Bronte had clearly lost interest in continuing the exchange.
“I’ll pretend I understand what you’re saying.”
Dutch sensed the shift immediately.
“I meant no offense, sir.”
“It’s fine. Oh, it’s fine,” Bronte laughed loudly, as though everything he’d said before had just been a joke.
Then he added,
“These vulgar people—they all hate me. They all fear me.”
After that, Bronte waved toward the crowd below.
“(Italian) I really wish every last one of you would die.”
Paired with Bronte’s booming laughter, the people below—unable to understand Italian—laughed right along with him.
By now, Dutch could clearly feel Bronte’s impatience.
“Well, Mr. Bronte, talking with you has been a real pleasure,” Dutch said.
“But I know you’re busy, so I won’t take up any more of your time.”
Bronte replied casually,
“Alright, alright. Go enjoy yourselves.”
“Go mingle with those crude pieces of trash.”
“You’ll start missing the good old days—drawing your guns at the slightest provocation, fooling around with cattle out on the open plains.”
Faced with the mockery, Dutch remained calm and answered lightly,
“They were good times.”
“Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen.”
With that, Dutch turned and prepared to leave.
Bronte’s rudeness and contempt left him with a deep sense of disappointment.
The contrast with the scene downstairs—where Davey was being surrounded and celebrated—was stark.
“You too,” Bronte added. “But before you go, let me ask one last thing. What exactly is your purpose for coming here?”
Dutch stopped.
“We haven’t… alright,” he said after a pause. “We need money.”
After some hesitation, he finally stated his true aim.
Bronte thought for a moment.
“Money. Yes, of course.”
“In that case, there’s money to be made at the tram station.”
“They store large amounts of cash there during the day.”
“I can’t get involved in that sort of thing anymore.”
“But you—as outsiders—can.”
“Don’t hold back. Do it properly.”
“Alright then, enjoy yourselves, gentlemen.”
At those words, Dutch’s eyes flickered.
He nodded to Bronte and left.
“(Italian) Alright, everyone—bring out the good wine.”
Author's Note
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