"Heir Unrivaled"
Chapter Three: Fire on the Plains
The Montana night was a living thing, vast and restless, its silence broken only by the howl of a distant coyote and the crackle of the depot's watchfire. Wyatt Archer stood on the rail yard's wooden palisade, his Stetson pulled low against the chill. Below him, Great Falls slept uneasily, its clapboard buildings huddled against the Missouri River's endless churn. The Archer Western Line's depot loomed at his back, a fortress of crates and iron, its rifle slits glowing faintly from the lanterns inside. The air smelled of pine, gun oil, and something sharper—trouble.
Wyatt's boots scraped the weathered planks as he scanned the horizon. The plains stretched endless under a sky pricked with stars, but his eyes were fixed on the north, where Savannah Blake had warned of Blackfoot riders. Red Hawk's warriors. A hundred men, maybe more, armed with rifles and grudges, ready to burn the Archer empire to ash. Wyatt's hand rested on his Colt revolver, its pearl handle cool against his palm. He wasn't the drunkard Nova Washington had laughed at, but he wasn't a fool, either. Tonight would test him, and he intended to pass.
"See anything, boss?" Jedediah Cole's gruff voice cut through the quiet. The foreman climbed the ladder to the palisade, his Winchester slung over his shoulder. His beard was streaked with gray, but his eyes were sharp, hardened by years of wrangling rails and men.
"Nothing yet," Wyatt said, keeping his tone light. "But if Red Hawk's coming, he won't knock politely."
Jed spat into the dirt below. "Ain't known a Blackfoot to knock at all. They hit fast, take what they want, and vanish. Lost three men in the last raid. Good boys, too."
Wyatt nodded, his mind racing. His 2025 knowledge—logistics, strategy, even basic game theory—felt like a loaded deck in a world that played by simpler rules. Red Hawk wasn't just a raider; he was a leader protecting his people from the "iron snake" of the railroad. Wyatt could fight him, sure, but blood would only breed more blood. Negotiation was the smarter play, if he could get close enough to talk.
"Double the guards on the north gate," Wyatt said. "And get me a crate of whiskey from the stores. Good stuff, not the rotgut."
Jed's brow furrowed. "Whiskey? You plannin' a party in the middle of a raid?"
Wyatt grinned, the old prodigal son's charm masking the steel beneath. "Something like that. Trust me, Jed."
The foreman hesitated, then shrugged and climbed down. Wyatt turned back to the plains, his breath misting in the cold. He'd read about the Blackfoot in history books—fierce, proud, masters of the land. Red Hawk wasn't a savage; he was a tactician, and Wyatt respected that. If he could turn an enemy into an ally, the Archer railroads might just survive.
A flicker of movement caught his eye—a shadow shifting against the starlight, maybe a mile out. Then another. Hooves thundered, faint but growing louder, like a storm rolling in. Wyatt's pulse quickened, but he kept his stance loose, his grin fixed. Showtime.
"Riders!" a guard shouted from the west wall. Lanterns flared as men scrambled to their posts, rifles clattering. Jed reappeared, dragging a crate of whiskey bottles that glinted like gold in the firelight.
"Hope you know what you're doin'," Jed muttered, handing Wyatt a bottle.
"Hope's a fine thing," Wyatt said, uncorking it and taking a swig. The burn steadied his nerves. "But I'm betting on brains."
The hoofbeats grew louder, a drumroll of doom. Shadows resolved into riders—dozens of them, their silhouettes sharp against the moonlit plains. Blackfoot warriors, their faces painted with ochre and ash, rifles and bows slung across their backs. At their head rode a man who could only be Red Hawk, tall and broad, his buffalo-hide cloak billowing like a war banner. His eyes locked on the depot, unyielding as the Rockies.
Wyatt stepped to the edge of the palisade, raising the whiskey bottle high. "Red Hawk!" he shouted, his voice carrying over the wind. "Name's Wyatt Archer. Care for a drink?"
The riders slowed, their horses snorting steam. Murmurs rippled through the guards, half in fear, half in disbelief. Red Hawk raised a hand, and his warriors halted, fanning out in a crescent that pinned the depot against the river. He rode forward alone, stopping just out of rifle range. His face was weathered, his eyes like flint, but there was a flicker of curiosity in them.
"You're the Archer boy," Red Hawk said, his voice deep, accented but clear. "The drunk who shames his kin. Why should I talk to you?"
Wyatt laughed, leaning against the palisade. "Because I'm the drunk who's got what you want. Supplies, whiskey, maybe even a deal. Shoot me, and you get nothing but bullets."
Red Hawk's eyes narrowed, weighing him. The guards shifted, fingers twitching on triggers, but Wyatt waved them down. "Hold your fire," he said, soft but firm. To Red Hawk, he added, "Come inside. One man, one talk. No tricks."
The chief studied him, then dismounted, handing his reins to a warrior. He walked to the gate, his stride deliberate, a tomahawk gleaming at his belt. Jed opened the gate, muttering a curse, and Red Hawk stepped into the yard. Up close, he was taller than Wyatt, his presence like a storm cloud, but Wyatt met his gaze without flinching.
Inside the depot's office, Wyatt set the whiskey bottle on the table, beside the map of the rail line. Red Hawk sat, his movements precise, his eyes scanning the room. "Speak," he said.
Wyatt poured two glasses, sliding one across. "Your people hit my depots because the railroad cuts through your land. I get it. You're protecting what's yours. But burning my supplies won't stop the iron snake. It'll just bring more soldiers, more guns. You want to save your people? Let's make a deal."
Red Hawk's face was stone, but he took the glass, sniffing it before setting it down untouched. "You offer poison and call it peace?"
"I offer a share," Wyatt said, leaning forward. "Your warriors guard the tracks instead of burning them. I pay you in supplies—food, tools, maybe rifles. You get wealth, I get peace. The railroad grows, and your people don't starve."
Red Hawk's eyes flickered, but his voice was cold. "Your iron snake eats our buffalo, our rivers. Your words are wind."
Wyatt tapped the map, his mind racing. "Then let's redraw the snake. Reroute the tracks to skirt your hunting grounds. It'll cost me, but it'll save blood. Yours and mine."
The chief studied him, long and hard. For a moment, Wyatt thought he'd miscalculated. Then Red Hawk stood, his cloak sweeping the floor. "I will think on it," he said. "But know this, Archer. If you lie, your iron snake will burn, and you with it."
He left without touching the whiskey, the gate clanging shut behind him. Wyatt exhaled, his heart pounding. He'd bought time, maybe respect. It was a start.
Dawn broke over Great Falls, painting the plains gold. Wyatt stood in the rail yard, watching the workers repair a damaged track. Jed approached, his face grim. "You're either crazy or a genius, talkin' to Red Hawk like that. What's your play?"
"Keep him talking," Wyatt said. "If he's talking, he's not burning."
Jed nodded, but his eyes were troubled. "There's somethin' else. Found this in the yard." He handed Wyatt a crumpled note, scrawled in rough ink: Archer falls. Kane rises.
Wyatt's blood ran cold. Silas Kane. The name Savannah had mentioned, the Hawthorne's hired gun. He tucked the note into his vest, his grin returning, sharp as a blade. "Looks like we've got a snake of our own to deal with."
Savannah Blake appeared at the depot's door, her auburn hair catching the morning light. She'd overheard, her gray eyes sharp as a hawk's. "Kane's no ordinary bandit," she said, stepping closer. "He's a killer, Wyatt. The Hawthornes pay him to do what Red Hawk won't—break you."
Wyatt met her gaze, his mind already spinning. "Then we'll break him first. Get me everything you know about Kane's crew. Where they hit, how they move. And find out who in this town's talking to the Hawthornes."
Savannah raised an eyebrow, a flicker of respect in her eyes. "You're not the fool they say you are."
"Never was," Wyatt said, his voice low. "But I'm happy to let 'em think so. Makes it easier to surprise 'em."
She smiled, just a fraction, then turned to leave. Wyatt watched her go, then looked at the map, the red Xs like bloodstains. Red Hawk was a problem he could solve with words, maybe. Silas Kane was a fight, and Wyatt hadn't come to Montana to lose. He'd play the prodigal son a little longer, let the Hawthornes underestimate him. But when the time came, he'd show them what an Archer could do.
End of Chapter Three