"Heir Unrivaled"
Chapter Four: The Snake in the Grass
The noon sun burned over Great Falls, turning the muddy streets into a steaming quagmire. Wyatt Archer stood in the rail yard, his Stetson shading eyes that hadn't slept since Red Hawk's riders vanished into the night. The depot buzzed with activity—workers hammered rails, guards reloaded rifles, and a team of mules hauled fresh timber from the river. But Wyatt's mind was elsewhere, fixed on the crumpled note in his vest pocket: Archer falls. Kane rises. Silas Kane, the Hawthornes' hired blade, was coming, and Wyatt had no intention of being caught flat-footed.
He leaned against a stack of crates, studying the rail yard's defenses. The palisade was sturdy, but gaps in the north fence begged for trouble. The guards were loyal, but half were green, more used to herding cattle than facing killers. Jedediah Cole, the grizzled foreman, had done his best, but the Archer Western Line was a wounded beast, bleeding men and money. Wyatt's 2025 brain churned—supply chain fixes could wait; survival came first.
"Jed!" Wyatt called, waving the foreman over. Jed trudged through the mud, his Winchester slung low, his beard flecked with sawdust.
"What's the word, boss?" Jed asked, wiping sweat from his brow. "Heard you sweet-talked Red Hawk last night. That your plan for Kane, too?"
Wyatt grinned, the prodigal son's charm a mask for the steel beneath. "Red Hawk's a man you can reason with. Kane sounds like he'd rather shoot than talk. You got that list of deserters I asked for?"
Jed handed him a crumpled paper, scrawled with names and dates. "Twenty men gone in a month. Most cited raids, but a few just up and vanished. Rumor is, some took Hawthorne money to jump ship."
Wyatt scanned the list, his jaw tightening. Betrayal was a poison, and the Hawthornes were pouring it by the gallon. "Find out who's still in town," he said. "I want to know if they're talking to Kane's crew."
Jed nodded, but his eyes were skeptical. "You sure you're up for this, Archer? Kane ain't no Blackfoot chief. He's a killer, pure and simple. Cutthroat who burned half of Wyoming for the Hawthornes last year."
"Then we'll burn him first," Wyatt said, his voice low. "Get the men to shore up that north fence. And set up a watchtower—something high, with a clear line of sight. Kane wants to play snake, we'll spot him before he strikes."
Jed hesitated, then tipped his hat and headed off, barking orders to the workers. Wyatt turned back to the yard, his mind spinning. In his old life, he'd outmaneuvered corporate sharks with data and deals. Silas Kane was a different beast, but the game was the same: know your enemy, control the board, strike first.
A shadow fell across him, and he turned to find Savannah Blake, her auburn hair pinned under a practical bonnet, her gray eyes sharp as a switchblade. She carried a leather satchel, stuffed with papers that screamed trouble. "You're still standing," she said, a hint of a smile on her lips. "Thought Red Hawk might've scalped you by now."
"Disappointed?" Wyatt shot back, matching her smile. "Or just here to babysit me again?"
Savannah's smile vanished. "I'm here with news. My contacts in Nova Washington sent word. The Hawthornes aren't just paying Kane—they're pushing a bill to seize your railroads. Senator Cornelius Hawthorne's got half the Capitol in his pocket, and your father's too busy playing politics to notice."
Wyatt's stomach twisted, but he kept his face loose, the drunkard's grin he'd perfected. "So the Hawthornes want to gut us from both ends. Kane hits us here, and Cornelius steals the rails back east. That about right?"
"That's the half of it," Savannah said, pulling a telegram from her satchel. "Kane's crew was spotted near Fort Benton, twenty miles north. They're moving fast—maybe a dozen men, armed to the teeth. And they've got dynamite."
Wyatt took the telegram, his eyes scanning the terse words: Kane sighted. Fort Benton. Twelve riders. Explosives. Target: Archer depot. His grin faded. Dynamite meant one thing: Kane wasn't here to steal. He was here to destroy.
"Any idea when they'll hit?" he asked.
"Tonight, if they're bold," Savannah said. "Tomorrow at the latest. Kane likes to strike at dusk, when the light's tricky. My father dealt with him once. Lost a cotton gin and three men."
Wyatt handed the telegram back, his mind racing. A dozen men, dynamite, and a deadline. He could fortify the depot, but that was playing defense, and defense got you killed in the west. He needed to turn the tables, make Kane the hunted. "Get me a map of the river trail to Fort Benton," he said. "And find out who in town's selling information to the Hawthornes. Someone's feeding Kane our moves."
Savannah nodded, her eyes narrowing. "You're planning something stupid, aren't you?"
"Stupid's my specialty," Wyatt said, winking. "But it's the kind of stupid that works."
She shook her head but didn't argue, striding off toward the general store. Wyatt watched her go, her green dress a splash of color against the muddy yard. Savannah Blake was a wildcard—sharp, loyal maybe, but tied to her own interests. He'd need her, but he'd watch his back.
By late afternoon, the rail yard was a fortress. The north fence was reinforced with fresh timber, and a makeshift watchtower—little more than a scaffold with a bell—rose above the palisade. Wyatt had the guards drill in pairs, their Winchesters loaded, their eyes scanning the plains. He walked the perimeter, noting every weak point, every angle an attacker could exploit. His old life's obsession with efficiency served him now—streamline, anticipate, control.
In the depot's office, he spread the river trail map across the table, its lines tracing the Missouri's curves to Fort Benton. Kane's crew would likely follow the trail, using the river's cover to mask their approach. Wyatt's fingers tapped the map, his 2025 brain spinning. Ambush them at a choke point, maybe. Or bait them into a trap. He needed more than rifles—he needed leverage.
Jed burst in, his face flushed. "Found one of the deserters. Tom Riley. He's holed up in the Rusty Spur Saloon, drinkin' like it's his last day on earth."
Wyatt's grin returned, sharp as a razor. "Perfect. Let's pay Tom a visit."
The Rusty Spur was Great Falls' roughest dive, a squat building that reeked of stale beer and broken dreams. Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke, the piano plinking a tune that sounded like surrender. Wyatt pushed through the batwing doors, Jed at his side, his Colt a comforting weight at his hip. The saloon fell quiet, eyes tracking him—cowhands, gamblers, a few Blackfoot traders in the corner. Trouble had a smell, and Wyatt carried it.
Tom Riley sat at a corner table, a wiry man with a patchy beard and eyes like a cornered rat. He froze when he saw Wyatt, his whiskey glass trembling. "Archer," he stammered. "Didn't expect you here."
Wyatt slid into the chair across from him, his grin easy but his eyes hard. "Heard you left the rail yard, Tom. Took Hawthorne money and ran. Care to tell me why?"
Tom's gaze darted to the door, but Jed blocked it, his Winchester casual but ready. "I-I didn't take no money," Tom lied, his voice cracking. "Just needed a change, is all."
Wyatt leaned forward, his voice low. "Here's the deal, Tom. You tell me what you know about Silas Kane—where he's camped, how many men, what he's planning—and you walk out of here. Lie to me, and I'll let Jed carve his initials in your hide."
Jed cracked his knuckles, playing along. Tom swallowed, sweat beading on his forehead. "Alright, alright. Kane's got twelve men, maybe fifteen. Camped by the river, five miles north, near the old fur trader's crossing. They've got dynamite, enough to blow the depot sky-high. Plannin' to hit tomorrow at dusk."
Wyatt nodded, filing the details away. "Who's feeding him information?"
Tom hesitated, then muttered, "Barkeep at the Golden Nugget. Goes by Nate. He's been takin' Hawthorne coin, passin' word on your shipments."
Wyatt stood, tossing a silver dollar onto the table. "Good talk, Tom. Stay out of my rail yard, or next time, I won't be so friendly."
Outside, the sun was sinking, painting the sky blood-red. Wyatt turned to Jed. "Get a posse together—six men, best shots we've got. We ride at dawn, hit Kane's camp before he moves. And send someone to watch Nate at the Golden Nugget. If he so much as whispers, I want to know."
Jed's eyes widened. "You're takin' the fight to Kane? That's suicide, Archer."
"Maybe," Wyatt said, his grin wolfish. "But I'd rather die swinging than wait for the noose."
Back at the depot, Wyatt found Savannah waiting, her satchel open, papers spread across the table. "Nate's the leak," she said without preamble. "I caught him sending a rider north an hour ago. You were right—someone's talking."
Wyatt nodded, impressed but not surprised. "Tom Riley sang, too. Kane's camped five miles upriver, planning a hit tomorrow. We're riding out at dawn to take him down."
Savannah's eyes narrowed. "You're going to ambush Silas Kane with six men? That's not a plan, Wyatt. That's a funeral."
"Then come along and keep me alive," he said, half-joking. "You're the lawyer. Talk me out of it."
She didn't laugh. "I'm coming," she said, her voice firm. "But not to talk. If Kane's got dynamite, we need to move fast, and I'm not letting you botch this."
Wyatt studied her, seeing the steel beneath the silk. Savannah Blake wasn't just a plantation heiress—she was a partner, maybe the only one he could trust. "Fair enough," he said. "Saddle up at first light. And bring that satchel. We might need a few of your tricks."
As she left, Wyatt looked at the map, the river trail glowing in the lamplight. Kane was a snake, but Wyatt was a hunter. The Hawthornes thought they could break him, but they'd misjudged their man. Tomorrow, he'd show them what Wyatt Archer was made of—brains, guts, and a Colt that didn't miss.
End of Chapter Four