Beyond the fourteen second-rate gunmen, one man stood apart, a true marksman whose skill clearly eclipsed all others. This was the middle-aged man in his forties, and Dutch's eyes gleamed with profound satisfaction upon recognizing his talent.
"Oh, sir, may I know your name?" Dutch inquired, his voice smooth, inviting.
"JD, JD Hodley, sir," the middle-aged man replied, his tone respectful. Given his exceptional skill, 'Jaydee' could have thrived as a bounty hunter. Yet, after years enduring the brutal realities of the battlefield, he was utterly weary of a life constantly teetering on the edge. Moreover, with a wife and children, the specter of leaving them utterly destitute haunted him. This fear had driven him to the humble, back-breaking business of carrying bags, a stark contrast to his lethal proficiency with a firearm. Now, a flicker of profound hesitation crossed his face.
"Oh, sir," JD began, his voice laced with apology and a visible dejection. "If you are recruiting gunmen, I'm afraid I cannot accept this position. I have a family, and I cannot risk anything happening that would leave them without support."
He yearned for the safety of a janitorial role, where he could bring his wife and children to live with him. The six-square-meter room, though modest, was more than enough for the three of them. He could save twenty dollars a month, and in just two years, his family could achieve a measure of prosperity. Now, having foregone this opportunity, his life would undoubtedly plummet back to the depths of endless odd jobs and manual labor.
Dutch observed JD's dejection, his anxious indecision. He stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on JD's shoulder. "Oh, Mr. JD, I personally admire your decision greatly. But there is one crucial truth you may not have considered. If your child endures his formative years in your current impoverished state, he will inevitably remain at the very bottom of American society. He will be timid, weak, afraid to resist, condemned to a life of hauling hay for ranches, toiling relentlessly for his family. And when you and your wife are old, riddled with sickness, you will suffer immensely, devoid of the funds for treatment, ultimately tormented to death by illness. Now, Mr. JD, do you still believe protecting your own life, at any cost, is truly the best thing for your family?"
"Ah?" JD gasped, completely stunned. Every man in that room, deep down, understood this brutal reality. It was why the younger men had eagerly showcased their marksmanship, proving their worth to join Dutch's factory.
JD's hesitation wasn't born of ignorance, but of trauma. He had witnessed too much death on the battlefield. The families of his fallen comrades had often collapsed into ruin, forced to sell their homes and lands, reduced to vagrancy, their wives selling their bodies, their sons driven to illegal work—a life worse than a rich man's dog. This had forged in him the desperate conviction that he must protect his own life for his family, a thought that had consumed him, twisted his perspective. In other words, his mind had developed a deep-seated issue, a common symptom of post-battlefield trauma.
Dutch observed the anguish warring on JD's face, his anxious indecision. He simply smiled, spread his arms, and walked past him, addressing the expectant crowd.
"Alright, gentlemen, I've hired every last one of you."
A ripple of excitement, quickly followed by a roaring cheer, swept through the Veteran Club. Dutch's voice resonated, clear and powerful. "For those of you whose marksmanship isn't as honed, your duties will be as loaders. You will be responsible for loading the raw materials for my clothing factory and transporting the finished garments to market." Dutch paused, his gaze sweeping over the eager faces. "Your pay will be a generous fifty dollars a month, with food and lodging fully provided. Your work will involve only occasional loading and unloading. Of course, I will also provide you with firearms, as you may sometimes need to travel with the wagons, and the roads in the West are… not always entirely safe."
He continued, his words a balm to their weary souls. "If, by some misfortune, you are injured during transport, I will cover all your medical expenses. Should you, tragically, perish, your family will receive a personal compensation of up to five hundred dollars. Furthermore, they will be given priority for recruitment into our factory, ensuring they have a place to live, a secure future. You may also bring your families to live with you in the factory compound."
"As for the fifteen of you who demonstrated your shooting prowess," Dutch's eyes gleamed, "excluding Mr. JD, the remaining fourteen will serve as gunmen escorting our goods. You know, gentlemen, the environment in the West is far from peaceful. I require you to protect our valuable cargo, both raw materials and finished clothing. Due to the increased danger, and the necessity of contending with dangerous desperadoes, I will pay you a formidable one hundred dollars a month. If you are injured, the factory will bear all medical expenses. Should you, God forbid, fall, your family will also receive a personal compensation of up to five hundred dollars."
Dutch's gaze finally settled on JD, a calculated challenge in his eyes. "And Mr. JD, if you choose to join us, I can offer you the prestigious position of transport captain. Your personal salary will be two hundred dollars a month, with all other benefits identical to everyone else's. What do you say, gentlemen?"
As Dutch spoke, the veterans below erupted into a frenzy. Food, lodging, and money—who could possibly resist such an offer? The wages alone were staggering; fifty dollars was double their usual meager pay, and they would even have their own private rooms. The work was not overly arduous, and the inherent risks were merely the common perils every Westerner faced. Anyone in their shoes would have felt an electrifying surge of excitement.
The fourteen gunmen were already roaring their agreement, their voices a unified shout. One hundred dollars a month was an immense sum; even Mr. Bronte of Saint Denis rarely paid his subordinates such a wage. Bounty hunters seldom earned a consistent hundred dollars a month; more often, they endured several idle, starving months, hoping to secure a single job that might sustain them for a few more. More crucially, the promise of a substantial compensation package, ensuring their families would be cared for even in death, meant everything. This guarantee liberated them from the gnawing fear of leaving their loved ones destitute.
And Mr. JD, who had been wracked with hesitation moments before, immediately transformed. "Oh, Mr. Dutch! Dear sir, I retract my previous words. From this moment forth, I am ready to carry out your mission!" With two hundred dollars a month, in just one or two years, he could transport his wife and children to a grand city like Saint Denis and live the life of a rich man. How could he possibly harbor any objection? What so-called psychological illness? JD was, in that instant, a healthy man, purged of all mental affliction! PTSD gone!
"Hahaha, good, gentlemen!" Dutch's smile was radiant. "I will send someone to wait for you at the Veteran Club. There are wagons and horses here. Those of you who need to settle your families can depart now. Of course, if you wish to be promoted, you can practice your marksmanship. As long as you meet the standards, you can be promoted to a cargo escort gunman."