From a modern lens, Hosea's outlook was a bit short-sighted.
But Dutch didn't fault him for it—how could he? Hosea could only interpret the world through the logic of his time. If you stripped him of his experiences and dropped him into the present day, he'd likely be just another man swept up by the tide of progress.
Dutch, however, wasn't just another man. He and the gang were already moving ahead of the curve—forces stirring an age that hadn't caught up yet.
He didn't ask to be dropped here, but now that he was, he'd play to win.
With a confident grin, Dutch handed Hosea a stack of freshly drawn designs.
Women's undergarments.
Hosea took them, eyebrows raised. He flipped through sketches of bras and panties with a mix of confusion and embarrassment. "Dutch… I… I don't even know what to say. Do you really think people will buy these?"
His face flushed red. Hosea, despite his hard-earned cynicism, was old-fashioned at heart. A lewd joke among outlaws was one thing, but to discuss lingerie so seriously? It felt… improper.
Dutch wasn't surprised. America, in 1899, was still deeply conservative. Liberated fashion was a distant dream. But change never came all at once—it came in increments. Even old dogs can learn a few tricks.
"Bras haven't been invented yet—not really," Dutch said casually. "The French have a vest-like version. But what I've designed? This is different. Revolutionary."
He leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Tell me, Hosea. If you were thirty again… would you buy one of these for Bessie?"
Hosea stammered, a half-laugh escaping his throat. "Dutch… buddy… some things you don't need to ask me."
Dutch laughed too, the warmth of friendship softening the conversation. But then his voice turned firm.
"Do you believe these designs can take off?"
Hosea, caught between disbelief and curiosity, looked again at the papers. And then he saw it—not just the clothing, but the possibility. The idea that the gang's future could be stitched instead of shot.
Dutch's charisma had always been magnetic. But now, it was grounded in vision. Hosea saw it.
"Dutch, I never thought I'd live to see a future like this. For Arthur. For John. For the boys. Hell, even for Sean." Hosea's voice cracked. "You're really giving them a chance."
The tension between them, once rising in Red Dead Redemption 2 over jobs like Blackwater and Cornwall, now faded. Dutch had evolved. And with it, so had the plan.
But Hosea raised a concern. "These clothes might catch on… but won't people just copy them? What's to stop imitators from stealing your designs?"
Dutch took a drag from his cigar, then gestured with it like a conductor.
"They will copy us. That's a fact. But they'll never be us."
He leaned back. "We release our styles one by one. Keep the market hungry. Build a brand—something people chase. When folks start associating our label with elegance, innovation, class… they'll ignore cheap imitations. Because wearing our clothes will mean something. It'll mean you're high class."
He adjusted his posture, smile growing wider. "And we'll tie that image to more than fashion. We'll tie it to women."
Hosea blinked. "Women?"
Dutch nodded. "In the East Coast, I've heard whispers—something called feminism. These women want change. They want to vote, to work, to live with dignity. But society shuts them out. They end up washing clothes in hotel basements or worse, selling themselves on the street."
Dutch's tone turned solemn. "But what if we gave them something better? A job. A role. A purpose."
"By empowering women—giving them work designing, sewing, modeling—we're not just building a clothing line. We're starting a movement. They'll support us, and in return, we'll give them power. Economic power. Social standing."
Hosea scratched his beard. "I don't know, Dutch. I've seen some of those women protest in Blackwater. Most of them just want the vote. They're not exactly the type to run fashion houses."
Dutch laughed. "You're still thinking too small. I'm not talking about speeches. I'm talking about systems. Give a woman her own income, her own name in the papers, and you change the world around her."
"Let's get to Horseshoe Overlook. Then you'll see. I'll take you and Arthur with me. You'll meet them. Hear their stories. Then it'll click."
Hosea remained skeptical, but he couldn't deny the fire in Dutch's voice.
Maybe Dutch had changed after all. Or maybe he was still the same mad visionary, only with a new battlefield: society itself.
Dutch knew the truth. In 1899, women's rights were still a distant dream. The vote wouldn't come until 1920. Real equality? That would take decades more.
But revolutions started small. One shop, one stitch, one idea.
And if he could give these women real jobs—dignified, paying work—he wouldn't need to beg anyone for power. It would come naturally. Because when half the population backed you, even congressmen had to listen.
And in that tangled web of alliances and influence, Dutch wouldn't just be a criminal. He'd be a king. Forget about Al Capone.
The King of Guarma. The President of America be it by might or by right. The world's most powerful merchant of silk and steel.
Guns and roses was the saying wasn't it?
Arthur had always been the one with a soft spot for widows. But in this new world, Dutch would be their champion.
And his empire would be stitched not with blood, but with silk.
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