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

Chapter 11 Indian Death Squad

"I'm glad, Mr. Sartre, because you still feel anger."

Dutch's voice remained calm, even tinged with a hint of approval, "This shows that you still harbor hatred, hatred for those thugs, and hatred for those officials who fail to enforce the law."

"Are you here to enjoy my pain and mock my incompetence?"

John Sutter gasped for breath, his chest heaving, his teeth grinding. His wife and children's faces flashed through his mind as he roared, "Of course I hate them! My family, my career, my new Helvetia—all ruined by these people!"

"If there is a devil in this world, I am willing to make a deal with it, as long as it lets me see those who ruined my life pay the price, even if it means giving up my soul!"

"Yes, that's the spirit."

Dutch released his grip and laughed loudly, "Then, Mr. Sartre, let's make a deal."

"I cannot undo the tragedies of the past, but I can promise you a completely different future."

"From Sacramento to San Francisco Bay, on this vast land that once belonged to you, I will make you hear the cries and wails of all those who have wronged you, seized your property, or profited from your tragedy. I will make them experience the same despair you felt back then: the despair of losing their homes and everything they had."

"Finally, I will pile up the heads of the most sinful among them into a mountain to commemorate your deceased wife and three sons."

His voice was like the devil's whisper, "And the price is simply that you need to hand over ownership of the land."

"Hahahaha, you think you can beat me?"

John Sartre laughed hysterically, as if he had heard the most absurd joke in the world: "Those are hundreds of thousands of people, with guns, fortresses, local officials, police and even the army."

"Do you mean you also have hundreds of thousands of people?"

"Mr. Sartre, there is an old saying in the East: 'Hearing is believing, seeing is believing.'"

Dutch remained unmoved by the sarcasm, instead leisurely taking a puff of his cigar. "Before you finally decide to sign the agreement and begin our formal cooperation, to demonstrate our sincerity and capability, we can first handle a few people for you free of charge."

"Please name a few people, any names you vehemently despise who are now thriving on this land. Whether they are farmers, mine owners, town officials..."

We will handle them cleanly and efficiently, and you will see it for yourself.

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, on the open ground of the mine.

After a long-awaited hearty meal and a short rest, the Chinese laborers began to make their own choices.

Of the hundreds of Chinese laborers, more than sixty ultimately chose to stay. Although life in the mines was tough, the promise of twenty dollars a week, equivalent to thirteen taels of silver, was indeed tempting.

More than forty others were unwilling to return to the dark, dangerous depths of the mine. They chose to take less money and work for an arms company in San Francisco.

Another person chose the third path—after having a full meal, they left on their own.

The gaze once fell upon this sole person who chose to leave.

He was a middle-aged man with a shrewd, mercenary look on his face. Most striking was the long, neatly combed braid on his head. At that moment, he stood awkwardly at the edge of the open space, a fawning, obsequious smile plastered on his face.

"I knew it, I think I've forgotten someone." His eyes used to be icy.

He didn't know what the man with the long braid was called; he only knew that the people at the mine called him Master Chen.

Because he knew some English, he became a mouthpiece between the white overseers and the Chinese laborers. He never fought for any rights for his compatriots; instead, he abused his power and often delegated his own work to others.

Several weak Chinese laborers died deep in the mines from exhaustion, never to emerge again, because they had to perform double the labor for him for so long. The original owner of this body had also been assigned such duties several times and suffered a great deal.

"Yuan Guang."

"My lord." Yuan Guang immediately stepped forward.

"Let that guy surnamed Chen go. In a little while, take him to the valley below the mine and send him on his way."

He withdrew his gaze, his tone indifferent. "Let his blood be a tribute to those souls who died from exhaustion or injustice in the mines."

He paused, then added, "Also, gather up those dozens of corpses in the valley and bury them properly. Don't let them lie exposed in the wilderness, becoming wandering ghosts."

"Yes, my lord."

In the California wilderness.

The sky is high and the clouds are wide, the sun is setting in the west.

After leaving the mine, I thought about it and decided to leave Wolf Town and head straight to Chinatown, where there are the most Chinese people.

It was easier for him to hide there.

Considering it was a two-day journey from the gold mine to San Francisco, he took the opportunity to practice horseback riding.

Ezekiel deliberately chose a chestnut mare from the herd; she was gentle and had a steady gait. After the initial awkwardness and nervousness, he was able to sit more relaxed in the saddle and try to control the horse with slight movements of the reins and legs, making small trots.

Not far away, eight Chinese assassins and eight white assassins stood in a loose guard formation, holding long guns in their hands, constantly scanning their surroundings to prevent any fools from coming up to their deaths.

At the back of the procession were several creaking horse-drawn wagons, crammed with the forty-odd Chinese laborers who had chosen to go to San Francisco. The wagons were bumpy, but much easier than walking.

"Hey, tell me, who exactly is that guy on horseback up there?"

On a freight wagon, a man with a hoarse voice asked in a low voice, "He doesn't look very old, but those fierce-looking guards around him are very respectful to him."

"He must be an incredibly important figure," someone nearby chimed in, their tone respectful. "They leveled the foreign mines so easily; could it be a capable person the imperial court placed overseas?"

"The imperial court? The imperial court was invaded by the foreigners a few years ago, and that guy doesn't have a queue, how could he be from the imperial court?" Another person said, "I think he's the son of a wealthy merchant from Southeast Asia."

"Who cares? At least he's better than those foreigners in the mine. He can at least give me a decent meal, and he pays whatever he says he'll pay. I'll consider him a good person," a more honest voice said.

On another freight wagon, a group of people were discussing Chinatown.

"I wonder what Chinatown in San Francisco is like? Ever since I got on that pig ship, I've been sent straight to this remote mountain mine. It's been two years, and I still haven't seen a real port (town)." Someone's voice was filled with longing.

"Hehe, I bet you don't want to see the docks, you want to see the prostitutes there, don't you?" a middle-aged man teased mischievously.

A suppressed yet tacit laugh suddenly erupted from inside the carriage. They were all grown men; who didn't know who?

The man at the front of the caravan, who had been listening to their conversation, couldn't help but twitch his lips slightly.

Men, having just escaped death and with their most basic survival needs met, naturally develop their most primal desires.

However, this also shifted his already somewhat scattered thoughts to a more realistic and long-term issue.

woman.

Currently, the majority of Chinese Americans are concentrated in California, numbering approximately 20,000, with more than a quarter of them residing in San Francisco's Chinatown.

Among these 20,000 people, the male-to-female ratio is extremely skewed; even a nine-to-one ratio would be an optimistic estimate, and the actual ratio is likely much more skewed.

After all, the vast majority of Chinese laborers were young and strong men who came alone to pan for gold or make a living; women were extremely rare.

Women are the foundation for a group to stabilize its population and reproduce in a foreign land.

If we want to truly settle these compatriots, get them to take root here, and make them wholeheartedly follow us to form a solid base, then marriage and family are an unavoidable part of the process.

This is human nature.

Transporting people from their hometown? That's one way, but it's across oceans, time-consuming, costly, and the number is limited—it's like trying to quench a thirst with water from afar.

White women or Black women? They can choose whomever they like; I haven't objected before.

After much thought, he finally thought of the indigenous people of this land.

Native Americans.

There has always been a saying that Native Americans are descendants of the Shang Dynasty.

The so-called Indians are the Indigenous Indians.

There are many reasons. As people of the same race, many tribal cultures have a strong tradition of ancestor worship and belief in nature spirits. The patterns on some unearthed artifacts also bear many similarities to those of ancient East Asian civilizations.

This statement is both right and wrong.

This is correct because previous molecular anthropology studies have shown that one branch of Native Americans does indeed have connections with the Han Chinese. The paternal DNA of the Shang Dynasty royal family is c-f10036, while the paternal DNA of some Native American tribes is c-p39.

The reason it's incorrect is that this genetic connection only indicates that the Han Chinese and Native Americans shared a common ancestor more than 30,000 years ago, but they are by no means close enough to be descendants of the Shang people; at most, they can only be considered distant cousins.

After hundreds of years of colonial aggression, war, massacres, expulsions, and deadly plagues from Europe, the number of these distant cousins ​​in California has plummeted from hundreds of thousands to just a few hundred thousand, the vast majority of whom are women and children.

"Rather than letting those white people devour the Native Americans and completely destroy their culture through slaughter, deception, and assimilation, it would be better to intermarry and integrate with the Han Chinese, so that this land can be returned to the hands of the yellow race..."

Once the thought arose, it spread like wildfire.

Once, with a slight thought, I looked at the eight remaining summoning slots on the system panel and chose the Native American type from the Asian race.

[Death Squad No. 73: Unnamed]

[Ethnicity: Asian, Native American type]

[Physical fitness: 15 (average for normal adult Homo sapiens males is 10)]

[Skills: Tracking Hunting (Lv.3), Language Mastery (Lv.4), Riding Skill (Lv.2)]

[Language: Native American languages ​​(Lv.4), English (Lv.2)]

He threw the eight newly summoned assassins directly near Arthur and his group, who were approaching Dutch's location in the wilderness.

Subsequently, he communicated directly with this newly formed leader of the Indian assassins through the hive consciousness: "Number 73, from this moment on, your name is Chongyue. The eight of you will temporarily follow Arthur and obey his commands."

"Once you find any news of Native Americans being enslaved or oppressed, go there to rescue your compatriots. After the rescue, take them to the vicinity of the mines and let them live there temporarily."

"Yes, Sachem!" Chongyue replied respectfully from the other end of consciousness.

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 group are speeding across the vast land of California.

The caravan continued without stopping, crossing valleys and traversing mountains, following the river all the way until they finally arrived near a forest.

Countless oak, cypress and redwood trees grow here, towering into the clouds, with trunks so thick that it takes several or even a dozen people to encircle them.

A fertile river rushes out from the forested mountains, making a bend here to form a relatively open riverside terrace. On the terrace is a sawmill, where hundreds and thousands of felled giant logs are piled up.

A large waterwheel, driven by the flow of water, stands on the riverbank, rumbling and providing power to the reciprocating saws on the shore through a series of linkages and gears.

It rises and falls at a steady pace, processing the giant logs into planks and beams. These finished products are stacked neatly, waiting for ships to arrive and transport them.

Arthur and his group hid silently behind the hillside, gazing at the sawmill in the distance.

"James Marshall, the sawmill owner and an engineer, discovered gold in the lower American River seven years ago when he was employed by John Sutter to build his sawmill."

"But he did not keep his promise to John Sutter and revealed that there was gold on the land."

"After John Sutter went bankrupt, he used the gold he panned in the riverbed as capital to open this sawmill in this more remote forest, which he still runs today."

Arthur relayed the information from Dutch, saying slowly, "Dutch and John Sutter will be here soon, and our objective is to completely eliminate the guards at the sawmill before they arrive."

"There are quite a lot of people."

John's gaze darted back and forth between the forest and the sawmill, and he said, "There are more than thirty people outside, cutting down trees, moving timber, and sawing wood.

Arthur said, "If we exclude the enslaved Indians and Chinese, there are only seven or eight white people we need to deal with, but the problem now is that we can't use guns."

"Once a shot is fired, everyone in the sawmill will be alert. They'll immediately grab their weapons and take cover in the sheds or use the lumber piles as cover. Once a stalemate develops, our advantage in a surprise attack will be gone."

"Dutch wants a clean sweep, not a brutal assault that leaves corpses strewn across the battlefield."

He turned his gaze from the slave laborers cutting down trees in the distance to Chongyue beside him and said, "Chongyue, you take your men and sneak in from the flank of the forest. Use the trees and terrain for cover and communicate with those Indian laborers."

"Ask them where James Marshall is right now, his usual routine, and the exact distribution of his guards. We need all that information."

Chongyue nodded slowly, letting out a low, guttural sound to indicate his acceptance of the order, and silently set off with the seven equally elite Native American assassins behind him.

"John, take two men to the sawmill gate, make a commotion, attract the attention of those white security guards, and create an opportunity for Chongyue."

"clear."

John grinned. "Uncle, Sean, let's go, let's cause a ruckus."