"Heir Unrivaled"
Chapter Five: The Hunter's Gambit
The Montana dawn broke cold and gray, the Missouri River a silver ribbon snaking through the plains. Wyatt Archer crouched behind a cluster of cottonwoods, his Colt revolver heavy in his hand, his Stetson pulled low to hide the glint of his eyes. Five men crouched beside him—Jedediah Cole, three rail yard guards with faces like weathered leather, and Savannah Blake, her auburn hair tucked under a borrowed hat, a Remington derringer tucked into her belt. The sixth man, a sharpshooter named Caleb, was perched on a ridge a hundred yards back, his rifle trained on the river trail below.
Five miles north of Great Falls, the old fur trader's crossing was a choke point—a narrow bend where the trail hugged the river, flanked by steep bluffs on one side and dense willows on the other. Tom Riley's confession had led them here: Silas Kane's camp, a dozen men with dynamite and orders to burn the Archer depot to the ground. Wyatt's plan was simple but reckless—hit Kane before he could strike, turn the hunter into the hunted. His 2025 mind churned with tactics from books he'd read: Sun Tzu, guerrilla warfare, even corporate sabotage. Out here, it all boiled down to one truth: strike first, or die.
"See anything, Jed?" Wyatt whispered, his breath misting in the chill.
Jed peered through the cottonwoods, his Winchester resting on a fallen log. "Smoke from a campfire, half a mile up. They're there, alright. Cocky bastards ain't even hidin'."
Wyatt nodded, his grin sharp as a switchblade. "Cocky's good. Makes 'em sloppy."
Savannah shifted beside him, her gray eyes scanning the trail. "If Tom lied, we're walking into a trap," she said, her voice low. "You sure about this, Wyatt?"
"Sure as sunrise," he said, winking. "Kane thinks I'm a drunk who can't find his own boots. Let's show him what a drunk can do."
She didn't smile, but her eyes softened, a flicker of trust breaking through her steel. Jed snorted, adjusting his grip on the rifle. "Hope your aim's better than your drinking, Archer."
The plan was set the night before, in the depot's lamplit office. Wyatt had sketched it on the river trail map: hit Kane's camp at dawn, when his men were groggy from whiskey and sleep. Caleb would take out their sentry from the ridge, giving Wyatt's posse the chance to slip in close. They'd seize the dynamite first—lose that, and the depot was done for. If Kane resisted, they'd fight. If he ran, they'd chase. Either way, Wyatt wasn't leaving empty-handed.
A twig snapped, and Wyatt's hand tightened on his Colt. A lone rider appeared on the trail, a wiry man in a duster coat, a carbine slung across his saddle. Kane's sentry, scouting the crossing. Wyatt raised a hand, signaling Caleb. A heartbeat later, a rifle crack split the dawn, and the sentry slumped, his horse bolting into the willows.
"Go," Wyatt hissed. The posse moved, silent as shadows, weaving through the cottonwoods toward the faint glow of a campfire. The camp came into view—a cluster of bedrolls around a smoldering fire, ten men sprawled in sleep, rifles stacked like kindling. A crate of dynamite sat unguarded near the riverbank, its lid half-open. Sloppy, just as Wyatt had hoped.
But one man wasn't sleeping. Silas Kane stood by the fire, tall and lean, his face scarred like a butcher's block. His eyes, cold as a snake's, locked on the trees where Wyatt crouched. "Archer!" Kane's voice was a rasp, cutting through the quiet. "I know you're out there, boy. Come on out, or I light this fuse."
Wyatt's heart kicked, but he kept his grin in place. Kane was sharp, sharper than Tom Riley had let on. The dynamite crate was a trap, bait to draw him in. Wyatt glanced at Jed, then Savannah, his mind racing. He could rush the camp, risk a fight, or play the fool a little longer.
"Alright, Kane," Wyatt called, standing slowly, hands raised but Colt still holstered. "You got me. Just a drunk lookin' for a chat."
Kane laughed, a sound like gravel under boots. His men stirred, grabbing rifles, forming a loose circle around the fire. "Heard you were a fool, Archer," Kane said, his hand resting on a Bowie knife at his belt. "Didn't think you were this stupid. What's your play? Come to beg?"
Wyatt stepped into the clearing, his boots crunching on frost. "Not begging," he said, his voice easy. "Bargaining. You're working for the Hawthornes, right? They're paying you to burn my depot. How much? I'll double it."
Kane's eyes narrowed, but a flicker of greed crossed his face. "Double, huh? You ain't got that kind of coin, boy. Your pa's cut you off."
"Pa's not here," Wyatt said, taking another step. He was ten feet from the dynamite crate now, close enough to smell the gunpowder. "But I've got the Archer name, and that's worth more than gold. Walk away, Kane. Take your men and go. I'll make it worth your while."
Kane's men shifted, muttering. Wyatt caught their glances—tired, hungry, mercenaries who followed the money. Kane saw it too, and his scar twitched. "You think you can buy me?" he snarled. "I'm gonna burn your rails to ash, and the Hawthornes'll pay me to dance on your grave."
Wyatt's grin widened. "Last chance, Kane. Walk, or you won't walk at all."
Kane's hand went for his knife, but Wyatt was faster. His Colt cleared leather in a blur, the shot echoing off the bluffs. Kane staggered, clutching his shoulder, blood blooming through his duster. "Now!" Wyatt shouted.
Jed and the guards burst from the trees, rifles blazing. Savannah dove for the dynamite crate, slamming the lid shut and dragging it toward the river. Kane's men scrambled, firing wild shots that splintered the cottonwoods. Caleb's rifle cracked from the ridge, dropping two men before they could aim. The camp erupted into chaos—gunfire, shouts, the scream of a wounded horse.
Wyatt dove behind a log, his Colt barking. He hit one man in the leg, another in the chest. Kane was still standing, his Bowie knife flashing as he slashed at a guard who got too close. "Archer!" Kane roared, blood dripping from his shoulder. "You're a dead man!"
"Not today," Wyatt muttered, rolling to his feet. He aimed, but Kane was already moving, vanishing into the willows like a ghost. Wyatt cursed, reloading as Jed and the guards mopped up the camp. Four of Kane's men were down, three surrendered, the rest fled into the river's mist.
Savannah appeared at his side, her derringer still smoking. "You're insane," she said, breathless but steady. "But you got the dynamite."
Wyatt grinned, holstering his Colt. "Told you—stupid works."
Jed jogged over, dragging a prisoner—a scrawny man with a bloody nose. "This one's talkin'," Jed said. "Says Kane's got a second camp, ten miles west. And he's got a letter from Cornelius Hawthorne."
Wyatt's blood ran cold. He took the letter from the prisoner's coat, its wax seal stamped with the Hawthorne crest. He broke it open, scanning the scrawled words: Kane—Burn the depot. Kill the boy if you must. The bill passes next week. C.H.
"The bill," Wyatt said, handing the letter to Savannah. "Your contacts were right. The Hawthornes are playing both ends—Kane here, Cornelius in Washington."
Savannah's eyes darkened as she read. "This is bigger than we thought. If that bill passes, your railroads are done, Wyatt. The Hawthornes will own the west."
"Not if we stop them," Wyatt said, his voice hard. "Jed, get the dynamite back to the depot. Lock up the prisoners and double the guard. Savannah, send a telegram to your contacts in Nova Washington. I want every dirty deal Cornelius is making on that bill."
Jed nodded, hauling the prisoner away. Savannah hesitated, then met Wyatt's gaze. "You could've died out there," she said. "Why risk it?"
"Because sitting still gets you killed," Wyatt said. "And I'm not here to lose."
She studied him, her gray eyes searching. "You're not the man they say you are, Wyatt Archer."
"Never was," he said, his grin returning. "But I'm happy to let 'em think so. Makes the surprise sweeter."
Back at the depot, the sun was high, the rail yard alive with workers repairing the damage from Kane's men. Wyatt stood in the office, the Hawthorne letter on the table beside the map. Kane was wounded, his crew scattered, but he wasn't done. The second camp, ten miles west, was a problem for tomorrow. The bigger threat was in Nova Washington, where Cornelius Hawthorne was weaving a noose for the Archer empire.
Wyatt traced the rail line on the map, his mind spinning. He'd won a battle today, but the war was just beginning. Red Hawk was still out there, weighing his offer. Kane was licking his wounds, plotting revenge. And the Hawthornes were pulling strings from a thousand miles away. But Wyatt wasn't the prodigal son anymore. He was a hunter, and the west was his hunting ground.
"Boss!" Jed burst in, his face grim. "Rider just came in from Fort Benton. Says Red Hawk's warriors are moving—headed this way. Not raidin', though. Looks like they want to talk."
Wyatt's grin widened. "Good. Let's see if the chief's ready to deal."
He stepped outside, the Montana sun warm on his face. The plains stretched endless before him, a land of danger and promise. Silas Kane had underestimated him. The Hawthornes would, too. But Wyatt Archer was done playing the fool. He'd build an empire here, or die trying. And he didn't plan on dying.
End of Chapter Five