Chapter 1104: The Farm

The road leading to the Lawrence Farm was already somewhat dilapidated. The surface was covered with broken grass and dry dirt carried by the wind or rain.

All signs indicated that this road was rarely used.

The driver slowly maneuvered the vehicle while looking at the map in his hand. "According to the map, this road definitely leads to the Lawrence Farm, but I don't know why it looks so desolate here."

He folded the map and tossed it onto the dashboard.

Trailing behind his car was a long convoy, including troop carriers, the kind used on battlefields.

To deal with the Lawrence Farm, they had gathered five hundred men, crossed the border from Indeno State, and traveled exclusively on deserted back roads.

They heard the Interstate Highway Patrol would cooperate with the Lance family's interdiction efforts, so they avoided the main roads, sticking to small roads or even driving off-road.

They had many vehicles, including high-torque, high-horsepower troop carriers, so they weren't worried about getting stuck in soft soil.

After several days of difficult travel, they were finally nearing the Lawrence Farm.

However, the road leading to the farm looked... unused.

The man in the passenger seat shrugged indifferently. "As long as we reach the Lawrence Farm, that's all that matters. Isn't it better if no one uses this road?"

"At least no one will see us."

Neither man spoke again. After driving for several days, the deep exhaustion was immense.

Driving might be an aspiration for the middle and lower classes during this era. They wanted to learn to drive and own a car.

Whether for taxi work, finding a job, or simply taking the family out for fun, it was a good option.

But they often lacked the capital to own a car. While cheap secondhand cars were indeed affordable—two or three hundred to five hundred dollars—the subsequent maintenance costs were not cheap.

Many could afford the initial purchase of a broken-down car, but they couldn't afford the continuous upkeep.

So, in their eyes, driving should be a fun and desirable activity.

Only real drivers understood how monotonous and anxiety-inducing long-distance driving was, especially on rough roads.

At the beginning of the trip, the men in the car would talk, but now they didn't want to talk; they just wanted to know how much longer it would take to reach the Lawrence Farm.

The dust and debris on the ground were swept up by the wind created by the passing tires, scattering onto the road. The moment a sign pointing to the Lawrence Farm appeared by the roadside, everyone's anxiety was greatly relieved.

"Twenty kilometers left, F***!"

The lead driver hit the steering wheel, accidentally engaging the car's horn—he was driving a new model that integrated the horn into the steering wheel itself.

The car cost over five thousand dollars. Even with the recent increase in wages, it was still an unreachable dream for ordinary people.

The sound of the lead car's horn seemed to trigger an emotional release in the drivers behind them. They all began honking their horns. For a moment, the entire road was filled with the sound of car horns.

"Isn't that too loud?"

In a car in the middle of the convoy, a captain looked at the senior cadre in the back seat. This cadre also saw the road sign, and his negative emotions subsided. He didn't think the noise was an issue.

"Let them stop in a bit. We've been rushing for days. The boys need to let off some steam."

The captain said no more. If the cadre said so, pressing his own opinion would be seen as defiance.

Indeed, without needing to be told, the honking gradually stopped. The previously lethargic men became enthusiastic and lively again.

They didn't know that in the distance, hidden in the wilderness, stood a wooden platform painted the same color as the surrounding trees. Two cowboys were using binoculars to observe them.

"Is that them?" asked one cowboy, chewing on a piece of hay.

The other cowboy replied with relative certainty, "It should be."

The first man put down his binoculars and picked up a phone nearby—a dedicated line that connected directly to the Lawrence Farm, bypassing the public phone network.

It only required a single phone line and a wire to provide minimal power.

Such "internal lines" were common in the Federation. Many large farms had this setup.

On one hand, they needed cowboys to monitor the movement of wild animals. Some regions had unique wildlife whose migrations could severely damage crops, requiring constant vigilance.

On the other hand, they needed a lookout tower to ensure no one stole crops before the harvest. Thus, they erected a watchtower and ran a phone line.

The Lawrence Farm quickly received the news. Schubert had already changed into the clothes he wore in his youth—

A cowhide vest, now so stiff it was like armor, a pair of faded breeches, and riding boots with spurs.

And, most importantly, his cowboy hat and two ivory-handled revolvers.

"Damn it, no one told me these clothes were so uncomfortable!" He stood in front of the mirror, looking like a clown, and angrily stripped off the clothes.

His two brothers continuously tried to calm him down. "You need to let the young men on the farm handle these things, let the family's youth handle it."

"You can't live forever, brother. Today, tomorrow, or at some moment we are unprepared for, we will suddenly leave this world."

"The world won't stop spinning because you leave. It will continue, and those who are alive must continue living."

"So, you need to learn to let go."

"This is a good opportunity to train the young men, to let them know the Lawrence Farm isn't some small farm. We once owned thousands of slaves during our peak!"

Schubert listened to his brothers, finally took off his hat, and scratched his thinning hair. "You're right. It's time for the children to grow up."

The three agreed. They handed the matter over to the younger generation of the family, then sat outside the farm house on rocking chairs.

They held their pipes and rocked slowly, looking toward the distant sky.

"The weather is nice today," the old man in the middle said after taking two puffs of his pipe.

His brother on the left curled his lip. "You really don't need to make conversation."

"F***, brother."

"F***, too!"

The old men eased their tension and anxiety in their own ways. The atmosphere at the farm was indeed slightly solemn, but only slightly.

They weren't worried about losing this fight. They had the strongest cowboy team in Likalai State, and Lance's men.

They had advanced weapons, and they had spotted the enemy first. They held a hundred percent advantage.

Their concern was the price the farm would have to pay to resolve this, whether it would exceed their expectations.

In a fight, people die, just as they did when confronting slaves in the past.

When the slaves were chained at the neck, hands, and feet, they were docile like the softest cats. Even if you kicked them, they would smile and show their white teeth.

But once those restraints were gone and they escaped, they became dangerous prey. They wouldn't just fight back against the cowboys and the slave-catching squads; they might seek revenge.

The bloody battles between slave owners and slaves had taught them the cruelty of fighting. These were men they watched grow up. They wanted them to succeed, but they didn't want too many of them to perish.

A few minutes later, a cowboy, looking excited, rode his horse into the farm. He looked at the three old men under the eaves. Even though he didn't speak, the three knew the shooting had started.

No gunshots were heard here. The exchange was too far away for the sounds to travel.

The farm itself didn't have many guards right now, but the ones they had were formidable.

The three old men put down their pipes and looked toward the distant sky.

They couldn't see anything, yet it was as if they could.

The intense gunfire, the occasional sickening flash of red in the dark world, and the numerous lives being extinguished.

"F***!"

"F***!!"

The Perez family convoy was ambushed just over two kilometers from the Lawrence Farm.

Gunfire suddenly erupted from the chest-high crops, riddling the unsuspecting drivers with bullets. The vehicles on the road immediately crashed into each other in chaos.

The senior cadre who had climbed out of the car touched the blood on his head. The sight of the red made him feel a sense of terror.

It had been years since he was last injured. And now, he was injured again.

He didn't know if the wound was from the collision or if a bullet grazed his scalp.

All he knew was that he was wounded.

He hid in a small space created by the crashed cars, a spot that offered some safety.

This was not part of their plan. Their plan was to take the Lawrence Farm by surprise, burn down the distillery and warehouse, destroy the crops, and leave.

Not to be ambushed before they even saw the farm.

"How many of them are there?"

"Why is the gunfire so intense?" The senior cadre was terrified. He grabbed the captain next to him and shook him violently.

The captain ignored him, which infuriated the senior cadre, who needed to vent his fear onto someone familiar and weaker.

He shook the captain twice and released him. The captain immediately slumped to the ground.

Only then did he notice the wound on the back of the captain's head. Blood and some organic matter were continuously flowing out.

He instinctively recoiled his hand, screaming a trembling "F***!"

A failed attack!

Just as he was trying to figure out how to respond, the sudden sound of an explosion and screaming made his eyes widen.

A piece of shrapnel tore through the doors of the small car in front of him, landing less than half a meter away.

The hole in the car door sent a shudder down his soul!

Another explosion followed. Then he heard his own men shouting hysterically, "They're crazy!"

"They're using dynamite!"

"Dynamite?" The senior cadre trembled. He fired a few shots randomly, then tried to crawl backward, toward the back of the convoy, where there were more people and presumably more safety.

He hadn't expected them to be this insane. But then again, if you removed the Lawrence Farm people, this area was a veritable no-man's-land.

There were no people, villages, or train stations for dozens of kilometers. It didn't matter if they used dynamite; no one would know.

This was an unequal fight. From hidden positions, the cowboys expertly raised their guns, fired, and quickly moved.

They were hidden among the swaying, chest-high crops and dense vegetation.

The Perez family men didn't even know where to shoot!

Grenades, incendiaries, and satchels of explosives—things that shouldn't belong to a farm's cowboy team—were being thrown like they were free. The men at the back of the convoy realized they had to turn and run, but it was too late.

The narrow road prevented the vehicles from turning around. The moment a car drove off the road, it would get stuck in the soft soil.

Some utility trucks could navigate the ground, but they were bigger targets. The driver would be shot and the cab covered in blood almost instantly.

Time passed in slow motion for those fighting. Adrenaline and other hormones made them unaware of the passage of time.

When the last gunshot faded, nearly an hour had passed!