Outnumbered? I'll conquer America with an unlimited number of suicide soldiers.

noon.

Inside the fortress, only sporadic gunfire remained, and eventually, even the gunfire ceased.

"Where's Brannan?"

Arthur stepped over the corpse, his brow furrowing. "Where did that old fox disappear to?"

They searched all the rooms on the three floors of the fortress, but couldn't find him.

"Arthur! Over here!" John's voice came from the corner of the stairs.

Arthur followed the sound and saw Marston loosening the collar of a guard who had been shot in the chest and was barely alive, letting the body collapse to the ground.

"He saw Brannan, along with his butler and the scarred head guard, running towards the back of the kitchen when the gunfire was at its heaviest. There's an entrance to the basement there, and most likely there's a tunnel underneath."

Arthur nodded and immediately said, "John, gather a few men and come with me to chase after them. The rest of you, ransack the house thoroughly and take all the valuables."

Soon, the two men led five or six people straight to the kitchen area at the back of the fortress. They went down a steep stone staircase and saw a closed iron gate.

Arthur stepped forward and knocked on the door with his knuckles; the sound was deep and solid.

"The thickness is between two and three feet, and there might be something blocking the door. A gun definitely can't penetrate it, so let's just use explosives."

John quickly returned to the upper floor, and soon returned carrying a heavy explosive charge, which he secured to the iron gate.

The group went up to take shelter for a while. A few seconds later, with a loud bang, a violent tremor followed, and thick smoke mixed with dust and gravel rushed out along the passage, covering their faces.

"Cough cough cough, why is there so much dust?"

Arthur waved his hand to shoo away the dust that hit him, and when the shaking subsided, he rushed down first.

Then he paused for a moment.

The iron gate remained unmoved, except for a large dent that had been blasted inwards.

However, the wall next to the iron gate, which was originally a mixture of bricks and rammed earth, collapsed entirely under the impact of the explosion, revealing the dark space behind it.

"Wow, the guy who built this basement must be a genius." John, who came down with him, laughed. "This is the first time I've ever seen someone reinforce the door but not the walls."

Arthur raised the oil lamp, his gaze sweeping across the rather spacious basement before quickly locking onto the depths of the room.

A heavy oak cabinet leaning against the wall was tilted by the explosion, revealing a dark hole about the height of a person behind it.

"This should be the tunnel. Let's go."

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Meanwhile, inside the deep tunnel.

Brannan was running for his life with his butler Henry and head guard Vincent, clutching several gold bars he had pulled from a secret compartment in his bedroom.

As for his wife, two children, and the other mistresses and servants on the estate, he had no time to care about them in the face of life and death.

"Hopefully, the basement door will keep them there for a while."

Brannan gasped for breath, his lungs burning with pain. Running for so long had been torture for his body, which hadn't been used to exercise in a long time.

His pampered body protested painfully, but in order to escape as soon as possible, he could only grit his teeth and persevere.

"Don't worry, sir."

The butler behind Brannan forced a smile and reassured him, "The basement door was custom-made in Sacramento, using the same steel plate as the Bank of California vault. One or two explosive charges simply can't blow it open."

"If they use more explosives, the passageway to the basement will collapse, and they'll have to spend most of the day just clearing the mud. By then, we'll have already escaped."

"A bomb! A bomb!"

Upon hearing the words "explosive pack," Brannan's frustration intensified.

He had thought that with his carefully constructed fortress and the guards inside, he could hold out for at least a few days until reinforcements arrived, or force the attackers to retreat.

But to his utter surprise, the enemy's firepower was not only incredibly fierce, but their explosives were also exceptionally powerful, blasting a large hole in the outer wall of his castle!

"With so many advanced weapons, they must be the private army of some big arms dealer. But I couldn't possibly have never been in contact with a military-industrial complex of that size in California, and I certainly couldn't afford to offend them..."

"Could it be that the Democratic Party hired them from the East or abroad?"

Before he could figure it out, Vincent, who was walking at the front, suddenly spoke up: "Boss, we've reached the exit."

Brannan's spirits lifted, and he quickened his pace. Sure enough, at the end of the tunnel ahead, a few rays of light shone through, and a rough wooden ladder leaned against the wall.

Vincent pulled out his revolver and said, "I'll go up and check things out first. You guys wait for me."

Having said that, he quickly climbed up the ladder in front of him, like a nimble monkey.

The wooden planks overhead were pushed aside, letting in the midday sun. Soon, Vincent's voice came down: "Everything's fine up there, come on up."

Brannan, unsuspecting, eagerly grabbed the wooden ladder and climbed up using both hands and feet.

He had had enough of the cramped and dark environment below.

He had barely poked his head out, and before he could even take a deep breath of fresh air, the dark muzzle of a revolver was pointed at him.

The middle-aged man smiled and looked at Brannan, saying, "Good afternoon, Mr. Brannan, please come out."

As the leader of the third team responsible for sealing off the manor, he sent his men out in pairs to guard various intersections. After agreeing to fire a signal, he also chose a spot to watch.

Before long, they heard unusual noises coming from the abandoned hunter's cabin not far behind them.

He and another assassin crept over to take a look, and saw that the floor of the wooden house had been pushed open from underneath, revealing a hole in the ground, from which a burly man with a scar on his face crawled out.

And what happened next was only natural.

With two revolvers on his head, Vincent, who knew all too well the dangers of risking his life for a few hundred dollars a month, gave a French military salute and, very cooperatively, followed the uncle's instructions to trick his boss into coming up.

After a while, footsteps came from the tunnel, and Arthur and John climbed up the ladder.

The middle-aged man greeted them, "Ha, you're a little late."

"Uncle?" Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I never thought you'd be so useful one day."

"Haha, I can hear jealousy in your words, kid."

The middle-aged man kicked the three men who were tied up and gagged, grinning, "We've got the guy. What's next?"

Arthur squatted down, removed the cloth from Brannan's mouth, and said, "Mr. Brannan, you are a smart man, so I won't beat around the bush with you."

"Hand over the money, and you'll get a quick death."

Brannan forced a calm expression: "Impossible! I won't give you the money unless you let me go!"

John frowned, rolled up his sleeves, and was about to step forward to fight: "Why waste words with him!"

Arthur raised his hand to stop him, his gaze still fixed on Brennan's face.

"John, don't worry, Mr. Brannan just doesn't know our methods yet."

He pulled out his hunting knife and smiled slightly: "Mr. Brannan, have you ever heard of a very interesting form of torture used by Native Americans called the Red Apple?"

"While a person is alive, slowly peel off their entire scalp. Because it looks bright red, it's called Red Apple."

"Don't worry, the person won't die at this time, at least not yet."

Brannan's pupils suddenly contracted, and his body began to tremble uncontrollably.

Then they would coat that bright red fruit flesh with a layer of syrup or honey.

You know, California has a lot of ants, flies, and all sorts of insects. They're attracted by sweet smells and slowly gnaw at the person until they die from endless pain and itching.

His hunting knife slid slowly across Brannan's face, as if choosing where to strike.

"Of course, this is just the end of one phase."

To intimidate the enemy, the head would eventually be cut off, tied with a rope, and hung on the most conspicuous tree.

In just a few days, clumps of white maggots will grow out of the rotting muscle.

Once the muscle has been mostly consumed, the clumps of maggots will slowly drip down, like melted, sticky icing, looking just like candied apples.

He lowered his head, leaning closer to the deathly pale-faced Brannan: "I'm curious, Mr. Brannan, how far can you hold out?"

John scratched his head and asked the older man in a low voice, "Who told Arthur about these strange punishments? Chongyue?"

"Who else could it be but him?" the uncle lowered his voice. "It's a pity Chongyue isn't here; otherwise, it would have been much more effective if he had said those words."

Brannan completely broke down.

As a member of the early California pioneer wave, he was not unaware of torture. He even participated in the massacre of Native American tribes for bounties and revenge, and witnessed firsthand scalped and gruesome corpses.

A Native American male scalp aged 12 or older is worth $100, while a woman's or child's scalp is worth $50.

This can be considered his first pot of gold.

That's why he could better imagine how terrifying the scene Arthur described would be.

The thought of turning himself into that bright red color, and being peeled while still alive, actually made him feel that dying quickly was a good option.

"I'll tell you, I'll tell you everything!"

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Arthur and his men took Brennan back to the manor, where the stench of blood still lingered.

What? Weren't there three people before?

The remaining two were naturally taken care of in the cabin.

Under Brannan's instructions, all the hiding places of money in the manor were searched, and the looted wealth was gathered in the hall on the first floor of the fortress, which was not yet completely destroyed.

"Is that all?"

Arthur frowned as he looked at the gold bars, stocks, and bonds in front of him.

A 10,000-ounce gold bar (311 kilograms) would be worth approximately $200,000 at current gold prices.

Two hundred shares of Central Pacific Railroad stock, two hundred shares of Michigan Central Railroad stock, and a few scattered shares of other mining and real estate companies, roughly estimated to be worth about $60,000.

In addition, there was a thick stack of bonds, mainly from several banks in San Francisco and Sacramento, with a total face value of about $40,000.

Add in some expensive jewelry or luxury goods, and the cash value would be around ten thousand US dollars.

"Weren't you California's first millionaire? Is this all the money you have?!"

Brannan exclaimed bitterly, "That's the total assets! It includes my real estate and hotels in San Francisco and Sacramento, my shares in wine and trading companies, and all this land in this valley!"

"That's how it's calculated across California, the US, and even the world. Having $300,000 in gold, stocks, and bonds readily available is an astonishing amount of liquid assets!"

Arthur chuckled and drew his revolver from his waist.

"Alright, Mr. Brannan, do you have any last words?"

Brannan's Adam's apple bobbed, his voice hoarse: "Can I not die? I can sign all my asset transfer agreements for you, I just want to live..."

Arthur shook his head, his expression serious: "Of course not. You're a California senator, a millionaire, and a Mormon."

"In Chinese terms, letting you live is like releasing a tiger back into the forest; it will cause endless trouble in the future."

"That doesn't count. Is there anything else you'd like to say?"

Brannan's eyes dimmed completely, his last glimmer of hope extinguished. He gave a bitter smile and said, "Then tell me, who wants to kill me? Let me die knowing why."

Arthur pulled the hammer down, his index finger on the trigger: "Mr. John Sutter asked me to give you his regards, Mr. Brannan."

"John Sartre? John Augustus Sartre?!"

Brannan's eyes widened suddenly, his face filled with disbelief and astonishment.

He was about to say something more when a gunshot rang out.

boom!

Brannan had a bloody hole between his eyebrows and his body fell backward.

Arthur blew away the gunpowder smoke from the muzzle and put the revolver back into its holster.

"Pack your things, get ready to leave."

"What about those slaves? The usual procedure?" John asked.

Arthur nodded: "The old rule: unchain Native Americans, Black people, and other slaves, tell them they are free and can go wherever they want, but warn them not to talk nonsense."

All the Chinese workers were brought back to San Francisco this time. The mines and logging sites don't need manpower for now, but Su Song's new factory desperately needs staff.

He paused, then added, "Before you leave, don't forget to burn that poppy field down. Don't leave a single poppy!"

John nodded, then said with some regret, "I thought you were really going to try that torture called sugar apple."

Arthur's lips twitched slightly: "I was just saying it casually. You want to see if he's actually putting it into practice when you go to Chongyue next time?"

The group of over two hundred people divided their spoils and put them into their own pockets for a quick departure.

They left the manor with the Chinese slave laborers and the bodies of twelve fallen comrades.

The fire started in the poppy fields, turning forty acres of flowers into a sea of ​​fire that buried all the evil.

Then came the stables, warehouses, and corpses—all fuel for the flames, thick smoke billowing and engulfing half of the Calistoga Valley.