Dutch's words had a profound effect on Hosea, his deep-seated worries melting away, replaced by a surge of exhilarating anticipation for the future. Arthur was right; they all harbored the desperate dream of a normal existence, a true freedom they yearned to forge under Dutch's cunning leadership.
Yet, a dark truth lingered: these hardened souls would never truly find peace in idleness. They had been forged in the crucible of wandering, robbing, fighting, and fleeing. Their very minds had warped, adapting to this brutal, so-called gang life. Their lives were an unending flight, branded by the shadow of the law. Hand them a tranquil farm and force them to shovel manure every other day, and they'd ignite a full-blown riot within a week.
Among the core members, only three truly possessed the capacity to embrace, enjoy, and find solace in a stable life: Abigail, Mary Linton, and Kieran. The others—especially Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea—had dwelled too long in the unforgiving embrace of the outlaw life. Still, for now, their hearts swelled with fervent hope. What remained unobtainable, to them, was always the most coveted.
Hosea and Dutch strode into the bank. Valentine's financial hub pulsed with activity, a buzzing hive in the small ranching town. They approached the front desk, and the clerk, a pale-faced man, immediately snapped to attention.
"Hello, gentlemen, how may I help you?" he asked, his tone clipped, indifferent.
"Ah, sir," Dutch began, a charming chuckle rumbling in his chest. "We're here to inquire about farms, perhaps even ranches. Do you happen to have any available for sale?" As he spoke, he deftly pushed a one-dollar tip across the counter.
The clerk's eyes, previously veiled by indifference, flared with avarice. His hand shot out, snatching the bill and expertly tucking it into his pocket, his face instantly blossoming into a grotesque, chrysanthemum-like smile.
"Oh, gentlemen, esteemed gentlemen!" he gushed, his voice suddenly dripping with obsequiousness. "You've arrived at precisely the opportune moment! We have three farms that have just been repossessed by the bank. Oh, dear sirs, allow me the distinct pleasure of introducing you to our esteemed bank manager!" The clerk's eyes narrowed in a fawning smile as he scurried from behind the counter, rapping deferentially on the adjacent office door before vanishing inside. "Please, wait here, gentlemen!"
Dutch merely nodded, standing patiently with Hosea.
That single dollar, often disregarded as worthless in the players' world, held immense value in this era. John, eight years in the future, would earn a paltry three dollars a day on a ranch. In 1900, a humble office clerk's monthly salary barely scraped 28 dollars. Though the numerical gap might seem vast, in the raw, untamed West, the intrinsic purchasing power of that dollar soared. It was, in effect, a dollar in 1899 equated to approximately 38-40 dollars in 2025, a value that would only depreciate further in contemporary times, yet the conversion held true.
The internal conversation within the manager's office was swift. The purchase of a ranch was a substantial transaction for any bank. Upon hearing that a generous, affluent individual wished to buy a farm, the manager practically burst from his office.
"Gentlemen, oh gentlemen, esteemed gentlemen, please, follow me. We have comprehensive details on these three magnificent properties here." He barked over his shoulder, "Moe, why aren't you fetching tea for these distinguished gentlemen, instantly!" Bank Manager Bandel bowed deeply, ushering Dutch and Hosea into the inner sanctum.
"Gentlemen," Bandel began, his voice dripping with forced cordiality, "these are the only three estates currently available in Valentine. Two expansive ranches, and one smaller farm. Here is their detailed information. Oh, gentlemen, please, take your tea." He gestured, inviting Dutch and Hosea to settle into the chairs behind the polished table. Two steaming cups were promptly placed before them, along with a thick dossier detailing the available properties.
"Oh, my dear Mr. Manager, you are too kind," Dutch purred, a predatory glint in his eye. "My name is Arthur… Arthur Callahan. I don't believe I caught your name." He deliberately used Arthur Morgan's common alias, a subtle wink at the man himself, still reeling from his encounter with Mary.
"And I am John… John Tacitus," Hosea added from beside him, offering John Marston's well-worn alias. The two exchanged a brief, knowing glance, a shared smile playing on their lips.
"Oh, dear sirs, my name is Bandel… Bandel Massif. It is an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance!" Bandel beamed, standing respectfully beside them. Though he carved out a decent living in this frontier town, his profits were primarily illicit, gained through embezzlement and private lending. The commission from a single farm sale, however, could eclipse the gains from dozens of his usurious loans. This made him respectful, not of the men, but of their perceived wealth. This was the fundamental, unyielding creed of America.
"So, Mr. Bandel," Dutch continued, pulling out a cigar. Bandel, ever-eager to please, immediately leaned forward, striking a match to light it. "Could you perhaps elaborate on the specific differences between these three farms? We'll likely return tomorrow to finalize the transaction once we've made our selection."
"Oh, Mr. Callahan, it is precisely as you say," Bandel began, his voice a practiced drone. "Our current three estates comprise two large ranches and one smaller farm.
"The first large ranch is located at the intersection of the Strawberry and Valentine roads. It spans four hundred acres. The asking price is 1300 dollars. This land is exquisitely suited for grazing, with lush grasslands and ideal temperatures year-round. Hence, the price reflects its premium quality.
"The second, larger property, covers four hundred and fifty acres but is situated between Rhodes and Valentine. Its price is significantly cheaper, only 1200 dollars. Though vast, half its area is consumed by the unforgiving desert, with sparse pasture unfit for grazing or cultivation. If Mr. Arthur desires a truly grand ranch, we still recommend the first.
"As for the small farm, there is currently only one: the Downs farm. However, we still require two days for the unfortunate Mr. Downs to vacate the premises. The Downs farm is modest, only one hundred and fifty acres, tucked away in a remote area, and thus carries a much lower asking price of only 500 dollars. If, Mr. Arthur, you wish to purchase, perhaps we can arrange a viewing first."
Dutch nodded slowly, his gaze sweeping over the regional map laid out before them.
The ranch between Strawberry and Valentine was dubbed "Hope's Dream." Its location, precisely situated between the two towns and far from the chilling embrace of the snowy mountains, boasted consistent temperatures between fifteen and twenty degrees Celsius—neither too frigid nor too scorching—and abundant vegetation, making it perfect for livestock.
The second ranch, "Vulture's Sculpture," was geographically less appealing. Half its expanse was swallowed by the desert behind Horseshoe Overlook, the other half bordering Emerald Ranch. The vegetation was decent, but the temperatures were higher, its sole advantage being the open plains.
As for the Downs farm? It was beneath their consideration.
"Arthur," Hosea interjected, his finger tracing the regional divisions on the map, "perhaps we need this 'Vulture's Sculpture' ranch. It's closer to Valentine and Rhodes, and even not far from Saint Denis. 'Hope's Dream' feels a bit too isolated."
Dutch shook his head, a grim resolve settling on his features. "No, John," he said, his voice a low, decisive rumble. "I think we can buy both ranches."