Reborn in 1878: America's Number One Bandit

Chapter 88 New Suicide Squad, Old Indian Dove

"this!"

He patted the butt of the gun: "This is the real Golden Tiger!"

He then pointed to his three menacing sons.

"This! Is my commando team!"

Finally, he grabbed Adams by the collar and dragged him roughly in front of him.

Silas pointed to the pile of white bones at the entrance of the manor.

"See that, kid!"

“Those bones, that’s my security agreement, Silas Redding’s agreement. This estate, I fucking chopped off heads one by one with knives and guns!”

"Anyone who dares to mess with me will simply have a few more heads added to that pile of bones!"

"Whether they're Native Americans, Mexicans, or those Irish bastards you're talking about! One comes, I'll kill one! Two come, I'll kill two!"

Silas shoved Adams away abruptly.

"Now, take your damn contract and get out of my territory!"

Adams staggered a few steps, but Marco caught him in time.

Faced with the enraged brown bear, Adams simply straightened his crumpled bow tie.

"That's a real shame, Mr. Reading."

"Since you have made your choice, we respect your freedom."

"Our company never forces anyone to purchase our services."

Adams put on his top hat and, together with Marco, bowed again to Silas Redding and his three sons.

"May you and your family have great success in martial arts in California."

Having said that, the two turned and left the manor without further hesitation.

"Pooh!"

Silas Redding spat a mouthful of phlegm onto the ground.

"Damn it, a bunch of stupid idiots who don't know what's good for them, daring to come to my territory, Silas Redding's, and talk to me about protection?"

“Father, you should listen to what they're saying about that gold meal package,”

The eldest son, Hank, chuckled maliciously, "Sleep soundly! Ha! Do they think this is some brothel in San Francisco selling aphrodisiacs?"

"a bunch of idiots!"

Silas grabbed the bottle and gulped down a large mouthful: "They should take a good look at themselves! I have over sixty guns and sixty good lads who can blow someone's head off! That son of a bitch sheriff in Sonoma County doesn't even have as many guns as I do!"

"They're trying to sell me security? They must be blind!"

Silas's anger was less directed at Adams and Marco, and more at the offense itself.

He, Silas Redding, is the king of this land.

He was a conqueror who seized 10,000 acres of land from the Native Americans by force of swords and guns!
The pile of bones at the entrance of his manor is his security agreement.

Now, a group of Chinese people, whom he considers too weak even to be a laborer, dare to swagger in and try to extort protection money from him.
This was the most absurd joke he had ever heard in his life!
"My father and his gang just wanted to scam some money."

The second son, Jesse, was a little quicker-witted and tentatively said, "The newspaper said they're in San Rafael..."

Silas interrupted him directly: "The newspapers say the US president is a gentleman! Do you believe that? A bunch of Irish bastards, a bunch of yellow-skinned monkeys, just dogs fighting! Maybe they're all in cahoots, putting on a show for those reporters!"

The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that it was true.

"A bunch of liars, trying to take advantage of me!"

"Hank, next time something like this comes knocking, don't even bother reporting it. Just drag it behind the stables and shoot it dead!"

"Yes, father."

Hank agreed in a muffled voice.

Silas waved his hand irritably and looked around. There were only his three sons and a few armed cowboys at the shooting range.

Where is your sister?

"Why haven't I seen that little wild horse these past few days? Doesn't she love watching me shoot targets?"

The moment the name was uttered, the atmosphere at the firing range suddenly became somewhat eerie.

Hank, Jesse, and Cody exchanged glances instinctively, all avoiding the old man's fierce eyes.

"I'm fucking asking you a question!"

"Hank!"

Silas stared intently at his eldest son: "Where is your sister now?"

"She, uh, she, this..."

Hank stammered, "Father, she's been in town these past few days."

"In town? Is it that run-down pottery shop again?"

Silas's patience was wearing thin: "What on earth is she going there for?"

"She might..."

Under the old man's intense gaze, Cody blurted out in fright, "She might be in love!"

"What? With whom?"

"A new cowboy."

Jesse reluctantly continued, "He's some kind of homeless guy who just appeared out of nowhere. Abby says he's an artist."

"artist?"

Silas Redding repeated the word, an image flashing uncontrollably through his mind.

A slick-haired, saddle-wearing vagrant was stroking his purest and noblest foal with his dirty hands, which were covered in horse manure and booger fluid!

"Fuck! I fucking fuck the artist's mother!"

Anger surged to his head, and in his rage, he crushed the wine bottle in his hand.

Blood dripped from between his fingers, but he was completely unaware!

"Father! Your hand!"

Hank exclaimed in surprise.

"Shut up!"

Silas roared, "Just a cowboy, my precious daughter! A bloodline of the Redding family! And she's going to sleep with a stable boy!"

"Hank!"

"Yes, Father."

"Take Jesse and Cody, call all the men from the plantation, go to town, and bring that artist back to me alive!"

"and then?"

Silas, his face contorted with rage, pointed to the newly opened apple orchard on the east side of the manor.

"Dig a hole and bury him under those apple trees!"

"The harvest from this land is sure to be very good this year."

"As for Abigail, bring her back, lock her in her room, and don't let her step out of the door again until her wedding."

……

More than 100 kilometers away, in an apple orchard.

Lawson leaned leisurely against an apple tree, eating a freshly picked apple.

"They refused..."

Lawson was not surprised at all, and even found it somewhat amusing.

Silas Reading's choice was exactly what he expected.

This old bastard who rose to power through slaughter and brute force has no concept of compromise or purchasing services in his dictionary.

If he actually agrees, Lawson will find it a bit troublesome.

After all, killing a customer always takes more effort than killing an enemy.

Now, this old guy has essentially torn up the only pardon that Lawson handed him.

"So."

Lawson was conflicted: "Should we send Sao Gou, or Kuaibang?" Sao Gou was ruthless enough, but he was crude and left too many traces.

QuickHelp is efficient and clean, but...

At this time, a burst of footsteps came.

The seven or eight Indian children he had rescued from Clark's dungeon were carrying two wooden crates full of apples past him.

Upon seeing Lawson there, they immediately put down their boxes and bowed respectfully to him.

"BOSS!"

The slightly older boy in the lead spoke in a low voice in broken English.

Lawson frowned.

He did not force the children to work; in fact, he gave them food and new clothes and had the workers take care of them.

But after experiencing the horrors of being imprisoned and beaten by Abel Clark, and even watching helplessly as their companions were tortured to death, the souls of these children were shattered.

They are extremely afraid of being disliked and abandoned.

So they desperately look for work, using almost self-destructive methods to prove their usefulness.

"Well done."

Lawson tried to appear friendly: "Go to the kitchen and get some candy."

Children are children after all. As soon as they heard there was candy, their little faces lit up with bright smiles. They bowed a few times before excitedly carrying the box away.

Lawson looked at their thin, small figures, then glanced at the mountain range in the distance that belonged to the Reading family.

He suddenly smiled.

"I'm really getting stuck on this."

Why are you focusing so intently on the label of "Irish gangsters"?
He actually forgot!
On this land pioneered by white people, another kind of hatred lingered, causing even the white colonists sleepless nights.

Indians!

How the hell did that old bastard Silas Redding make his fortune?

It was achieved by massacring the Bomo tribe!

Isn't that pile of white bones at the entrance of his manor, which he is so proud of, proof of his so-called achievements?
Wasn't that 10,000 acres of fertile land stolen from the corpses of Native Americans?
Today, most of California's Native Americans are herded into impoverished settlements like livestock.

But there were always some stubborn and fierce warriors who hid in the deep mountains and forests, like lone wolves, and would occasionally rush out to attack white settlements.

They carried out their final revenge by scalping people!

"Ah……"

The smile on Lawson's lips grew wider and wider.

For a group of Irish thugs to wipe out Silas Reading's entire family, that's called double-crossing.

But if a group of vengeful Native American savages were to massacre the butcher who used the skulls of their own people as ornaments, that would be divine retribution!
In this way, everything is simply perfect!
It's time for a new gang of ruthless criminals to emerge in California.

Lawson's consciousness immediately sank into the system.

[System: Please select the race to refresh.]

"Indians".

[System: Please select a clan branch.]

"Bomo".

[System: Please enter the refresh quantity.]

"Thirty-six."

[System: Please select refresh coordinates... Confirmed: Hyena Gang Mountain Stronghold.]

[System: ...Refreshing...]

……

In the northern part of Marin County, deep in the Coastal Mountains.

Johnny, wrapped in a stinky bearskin, was drinking the last bottle of cheap whiskey by the campfire.

The cold wind at the mountaintop stung people's faces.

"Damn it, this awful weather..."

He had just uttered a curse when suddenly, the air behind him distorted.

Johnny and his men immediately drew their guns and stood guard.

But soon, thirty-six tall, bare-chested figures with bronze skin appeared out of thin air in the moonlight.

They were not the emaciated, listless Indians of the reservation in 1878.

They were the true owners of this land hundreds of years ago!
Each of them was over six feet tall, and their muscles were as bulging as granite!
They wore only simple deerskin around their waists, yet they seemed completely oblivious to the biting cold!

Johnny was stunned.

These are the real barbarians!

He immediately put down his gun and waved his hand.

The prepared weapon case was quickly opened, revealing Winchester and Colt revolvers and sharp cavalry sabers, which gleamed with a chilling aura in the moonlight!

There is no communication, and absolutely no need for communication!
The thirty-six Pomeranians immediately and orderly equipped themselves with weapons.

Five minutes later, thirty-six fully armed Native Americans were already neatly seated on their horses.

They all turned their heads in unison, looking southeast towards Reading Ranch.

The leader raised his hand and slashed forward with a sudden blow!
"Hmph!"

A suppressed guttural sound.

Thirty-six warhorses charged out of the valley and quickly disappeared into the night.

Johnny stood there for a long time before shivering.

"FUCK! These red-skinned bastards are more like fucking devils than we hyenas."

In the apple orchard, Lawson slowly exhaled a puff of white breath.

He could feel that new, wild power beginning to surge.

"This Indian squad..."

He thought for a moment, and the image that came to mind was of a bird commonly found in California, whose mournful cry always hovered over carrion.

"Let's call it Old Spotted Dove!"

In Lawson's eyes, Silas Redding's private army of sixty men was not even an appetizer.

Through these real battles, from massacring the police station to wiping out Pinkerton's elite forces, Lawson has gained an extremely clear understanding of the combat capabilities of his elite assassins.

These were certainly not the rabble of the 19th century.

They were not cowboys who fired their guns on a whim, nor were they militiamen who only knew how to line up and be shot, used as cannon fodder by officers.

From the moment the system refreshed, they became perfect killing machines, proficient in stealth, hand-to-hand combat, and firearms, and possessing absolute loyalty and an iron will!
Even more terrifying is that a few individuals among them will awaken a terrifying talent that Lawson calls the Eye of Death.

That's not a superpower, but a kind of almost pathological focus!

When they enter that state, everything around them slows down.

Wind speed, humidity, the target's breathing, and even the heartbeat—all sorts of data flood the brain in an instant.

Their brains can complete calculations and make optimal responses in the shortest amount of time!
There were no unnecessary movements, just a highly efficient massacre!

Of the thirty-six warriors of the Old Turtledove, at least three or four possess this Eye of Death.

Lawson even felt it was a bit of a waste to send them to clear out a ranch militia of sixty men.

However, it's also time to give these white settlers, who rose to power by massacring Native Americans and considered themselves the masters of this land, a little bit of shock from the old era.

Lawson turned his attention back to the present.

Just now, a stream of information flooded into his brain.

A message he had been eagerly awaiting.

A dandelion seed crossed the Atlantic Ocean and finally landed in London, England!

This is a thrilling piece of news.

Although assassins had already infiltrated major East Coast cities such as New York, Chicago, and Philadelphia, London was a completely different concept!
In 1878, the center of the world was not New York, but London.

The heart of the British Empire, the absolute hegemon of global finance!

(End of this chapter)