Riding through Red Dead Redemption 2's sprawling landscapes in 2025 still feels like stepping into a pressure cooker about to explode. That haunting beauty? Total illusion. By 1899, the West ain't what it used to be—Pinkertons breathing down necks, lawmen tightening the noose, and bounty hunters turning the frontier into a predator's playground. Yet somehow, these gangs cling like ticks to a mangy dog, each more vicious than the last. Honestly? Just hearing a twig snap in Roanoke Ridge or catching a green scarf flash in Lemoyne still makes players sweat bullets. The game's brilliance lies not just in their designs, but how they feel—like shadows that swallow the sunlight whole.

Van der Linde Gang: The Slow Unraveling

Leader: Dutch Van der Linde

Most Evil Act: Botched Blackwater heist drowning innocents

Notable Members: Arthur Morgan, John Marston, Hosea Matthews

Man, what a gut-punch this crew is. Starting out, you almost buy Dutch's Robin Hood spiel—stealing from rich pigs to help the downtrodden. But that idealism curdles faster than milk in the New Hanover sun. Dutch’s voice drips honey while his eyes scream chaos, and witnessing his descent is like watching a train wreck in slow motion. That Blackwater massacre? Pure nightmare fuel. They’ve got rules, sure—no hurting kids or pointless cruelty—but when bullets fly, bystanders drop like flies. Playing today, you still wonder: Was the gang’s implosion inevitable, or did Dutch’s ego poison the well? Either way, they’re tragic proof that even ‘noble’ outlaws leave graves in their wake.

Laramie Gang: Bullies with Bad Teeth

Leader: Unnamed

Most Evil Act: Terrorizing farmers for land grabs

Notable Members: Bart Cavanaugh

(xxx)

If the Van der Linde boys are complex whiskey, the Laramies are cheap moonshine—all bite, no depth. These clowns operate like schoolyard tyrants, spitting tobacco on your boots rather than putting a bullet in your skull. Mostly. Don’t get it twisted though; their fists crack bones like dry twigs when ranchers refuse to cough up property. It’s almost pathetic how they grovel for paid gigs—hired muscle with zero ambition beyond next week’s coin. Running into ’em near Big Valley feels like stumbling upon rabid prairie dogs: noisy, irritating, but unlikely to kill ya… unless their client demands it. Yikes.

Del Lobo Gang: Vultures in Human Skin

Leaders: Alfred & Esteban Cortez

Most Evil Act: Torturing lawmen for sport

Notable Members: Flaco Hernandez, Ramon Cortez

Now HERE’S where things get properly twisted. While others steal to eat, the Del Lobos gorge themselves on suffering. These vultures nest in Thieves’ Landing, radiating menace like heat off a desert rock. Their loyalty’s real—they’ll siege plague-ridden Armadillo to rescue one of their own—but holy hell, their cruelty’s next-level. Stagecoach drivers? Tortured. Townsfolk? Terrified. They don’t just kill; they savor it, turning murder into performance art. Encountering them near Tumbleweed in 2025 still requires deep breaths—you ain’t just fighting bandits, you’re facing pure, unfiltered evil with a grin.

O’Driscoll Boys: Green-Scarfed Cannon Fodder

Leader: Colm O’Driscoll

Most Evil Act: Brutalizing Sadie Adler’s homestead

Notable Members: Kieran Duffy (ex-member)

(xxx)

Talk about wasted potential. Colm’s gang feels less like brothers and more like disposable knives—anonymous, replaceable, and dumb as rocks. Their green scarves might as well be target markers. What’s chilling isn’t their strategy (they ain’t got none), but their senseless rage. Burning homesteads? Terrorizing widows? All because Colm’s got a petty feud with Dutch. They’re rabid dogs off the leash, proving numbers mean squat without brains. Crossing paths near Valentine still triggers instant fight-or-flight—not ’cause they’re smart, but ’cause unpredictability is scarier than any plan.

Lemoyne Raiders: Confederacy Ghosts

Leader: Lindsey Wofford

Most Evil Act: Murdering journalists and lawmen

Notable Members: Camille de Millemont

Ugh, these guys. Stumbling through Lemoyne’s swamps, the Raiders are walking Confederate museum pieces—racist, delusional, and vicious as cornered gators. They’ll preach ‘freedom’ while putting slugs in anyone challenging their rotten ‘heritage.’ Their camps reek of cheap whiskey and cheaper ideals, littered with rebel flags and hate. Fighting ’em now feels disturbingly relevant, like battling ghosts of intolerance that just won’t die. When they ambush you near Rhodes, it ain’t about loot—it’s about erasing progress one bullet at a time. Chilling stuff.

Murfree Brood: Hills Have Eyes, West Edition

Leader: Unknown

Most Evil Act: Slaughtering travelers in Roanoke Ridge

Notable Members: Unknown

Nope nope NOPE. If the Skinner Brothers are savage, the Murfrees are straight-up feral. These inbred hill-folk treat Roanoke Ridge like their personal butcher shop, ambushing anyone dumb enough to camp there. Their mangy horses and blood-stained rags scream decay, and finding their caves littered with bones? Pure horror movie stuff. Even animals ain’t safe—their own mounts look half-starved and beaten. Roaming those misty forests today, you’ll catch every rustle, every shadow… wondering when the Brood’s yellow eyes will appear. Absolutely skin-crawling.

Skinner Brothers: Humanity’s Darkest Mirror

Leaders: The Three Skinner Brothers

Most Evil Act: Scalping innocents across Ambarino

Notable Members: Elias Green, Otis Skinner

(xxx)

Forget money or power—the Skinners crave chaos like oxygen. Nomads armed with knives and madness, they’ll skin a traveler alive just to watch the light leave their eyes. Scalping? Dismemberment? Tuesday afternoon stuff. What chills players to the bone even now is their lack of motive. They’re not outlaws; they’re pure id unleashed, turning the wilderness into a canvas of carnage. Finding their camps near Tall Trees, strewn with mutilated corpses, forces a grim question: When civilization crumbles, are we all just one bad day from becoming Skinners? Damn.

Riding away from these nightmares, you’re left with more than just bullet holes. RDR2’s gangs aren’t obstacles—they’re dark reflections of a dying era’s desperation. The Van der Lindes’ broken dreams, the Skinners’ soulless rage… they linger in your saddlebags like ghosts. Six years after release, that tension still hums. Maybe it’s the writing. Maybe it’s how they make you confront the rot beneath the West’s sunset beauty. Either way? Pack extra ammo.