"Heir Unrivaled"
Chapter Seven: The Second Strike
The Montana dawn was a blade of light, slicing through the mist that clung to the Missouri River's banks. Wyatt Archer rode at the head of a seven-man posse, his Stetson low, his Colt revolver gleaming at his hip. The trail west was a rutted scar through the plains, flanked by sagebrush and the skeletons of cottonwoods. Ten miles from Great Falls, Silas Kane's second camp waited—a den of vipers, armed with dynamite and Hawthorne gold. Wyatt's victory at the fur trader's crossing had bloodied Kane's nose, but a wounded snake was twice as dangerous, and Wyatt wasn't here to play games.
Jedediah Cole rode beside him, his Winchester across his saddle, his bearded face set like stone. Savannah Blake was on his left, her auburn hair hidden under a wide-brimmed hat, her derringer tucked in a holster she'd strapped on like she'd been born to it. Four rail yard guards followed, their rifles loaded, their eyes scanning the horizon. Caleb, the sharpshooter, had stayed behind to watch the depot, his rifle ready for any trouble that followed Nate's betrayal.
Wyatt's mind churned, his 2025 instincts mapping the terrain like a spreadsheet. The trail narrowed ahead, dipping into a shallow ravine where the river bent south. Perfect for an ambush—Kane's or his own. Nate, the Golden Nugget's barkeep, had fled to Kane last night, carrying word of Wyatt's plans. That meant Kane would be ready, but Wyatt was counting on it. Surprise was overrated; misdirection was king.
"Jed," Wyatt said, his voice low. "When we hit the ravine, you and two men circle south. Make noise—fire a few shots, kick up dust. I want Kane thinking we're coming from the river."
Jed's eyes narrowed. "Baitin' him? What's the real play?"
Wyatt's grin was wolfish. "Savannah and I take the north ridge with the others. We hit from above while Kane's chasing shadows."
Savannah glanced at him, her gray eyes sharp. "You're betting Kane's dumb enough to fall for it. If he's got scouts, we're the ones in a trap."
"Then we'd better be faster," Wyatt said, winking. "You in or out, Miss Blake?"
She snorted, adjusting her hat. "In. But if you get me shot, I'm billing your estate."
Jed chuckled, a rare sound, and spurred his horse south with two guards. Wyatt led Savannah and the remaining men north, climbing a rocky ridge that overlooked the ravine. The air was sharp with pine and gun oil, the only sound the creak of saddles and the distant rush of the river. Below, the ravine opened like a wound, its floor dotted with boulders and a faint wisp of campfire smoke. Kane's camp.
Wyatt dismounted, tying his horse to a scrub pine. He crouched at the ridge's edge, peering through a spyglass he'd found in the depot's office. The camp was small—six bedrolls, a tethered horse, and a stack of crates that screamed dynamite. Five men moved lazily, cleaning rifles or chewing jerky. Kane was there, his scarred face unmistakable, his shoulder bandaged from Wyatt's shot two days ago. He barked orders, his Bowie knife flashing as he gestured.
"Small crew," Wyatt whispered. "Kane's keeping it tight after we hit his first camp."
Savannah crouched beside him, her derringer drawn. "Too small," she said. "Nate warned him. He's got men hidden, or he's not here at all."
Wyatt nodded, his mind racing. Savannah was right—Kane was no fool. The camp was bait, just like the dynamite crate had been. He scanned the ravine, spotting a glint of metal in the boulders to the west. Scouts, maybe, or a second force waiting to pounce. He adjusted his plan, his 2025 brain spinning through scenarios. "We stick to the ridge," he said. "Wait for Jed's diversion, then hit the camp hard. If Kane's got an ambush, we'll see it coming."
A rifle shot cracked in the distance—Jed's signal. Dust rose from the riverbank, followed by shouts and the clatter of hooves. Kane's men scrambled, grabbing rifles and diving for cover. Kane himself stood calm, his eyes scanning the ridge like he knew Wyatt was watching. "Come on, Archer!" he shouted, his voice a rasp. "I owe you a bullet!"
Wyatt grinned, signaling his men. "Now."
The posse opened fire, their rifles spitting lead into the camp below. Two of Kane's men dropped, clutching wounds, while the others returned fire, bullets pinging off the ridge. Savannah's derringer cracked, precise as a surgeon, dropping a man who'd aimed too close. Wyatt's Colt barked, hitting a crate that exploded in a shower of splinters—not dynamite, just supplies. Kane's trap was clever, but he'd underestimated Wyatt's aim.
From the west, a new threat emerged—four riders bursting from the boulders, their carbines blazing. Kane's ambush. Wyatt cursed, diving behind a rock as bullets chewed the dirt. "Savannah, cover the ridge!" he shouted, reloading his Colt. "You two, take those riders!"
The guards fired, dropping one rider, but the others kept coming, their horses charging up the slope. Wyatt aimed, his shot catching a rider in the chest, sending him tumbling. Savannah's derringer spat again, and another rider fell. The third turned tail, vanishing into the ravine.
Below, Kane was moving, dragging a dynamite crate toward the river. Wyatt's heart kicked—he couldn't let that crate go. "Jed!" he shouted into the chaos. "Cut him off!"
Jed's posse burst from the riverbank, their rifles blazing. Kane's remaining men scattered, but Kane was fast, leaping onto a horse and galloping west, the crate tied to his saddle. Wyatt sprinted to his horse, Savannah close behind. "We can't let him get away!" he yelled, spurring his mount down the ridge.
The chase was a blur of dust and hooves, the river's roar drowning out the gunfire. Kane rode like a demon, his horse weaving through the sagebrush. Wyatt's Colt was empty, but he drew a hunting knife from his boot, his eyes locked on the dynamite crate. Savannah rode beside him, her hat lost, her hair streaming like fire. "He's heading for the old mine!" she shouted, pointing to a dark gash in the hills ahead.
Wyatt nodded, his mind clicking. An abandoned gold mine—perfect for a last stand or a trap. He slowed his horse, letting Kane gain ground. "Let him think he's safe," he told Savannah. "We'll take him in the mine."
Jed caught up, his face grim. "Lost one man back there. Kane's down to two, but that dynamite's enough to bury us all."
"Then we don't give him time to light it," Wyatt said, dismounting at the mine's entrance. The shaft yawned like a grave, its timbers rotting, its depths black as sin. Lanterns flickered inside, and Kane's horse stood tethered nearby, the dynamite crate beside it.
Wyatt signaled the posse to spread out, his knife in one hand, his reloaded Colt in the other. Savannah and Jed followed, their weapons drawn. The mine was a maze of tunnels, but Kane's trail was clear—bootprints in the dust, leading deep. Wyatt moved silently, his 2025 instincts screaming: control the terrain, anticipate the move.
A spark flared ahead—Kane, lighting a fuse. Wyatt dove forward, tackling him into the dirt. The dynamite crate skidded across the floor, the fuse hissing. Savannah grabbed it, stomping the fuse out with her boot. Kane roared, his Bowie knife slashing, but Wyatt was faster, pinning his arm and pressing the Colt to his temple.
"Game over, Kane," Wyatt said, his voice cold. "Drop the knife, or I drop you."
Kane's scar twitched, but he let the knife fall, his eyes burning with hate. "You're dead, Archer," he spat. "The Hawthornes'll see to it."
"Not today," Wyatt said, binding Kane's wrists with a rope from his belt. Jed and the guards dragged Kane's last man from the shadows, bloodied but alive.
Back at the depot, the sun was setting, the rail yard alive with workers securing the dynamite. Kane and his man were locked in a storage shed, guarded by men who'd seen their friends die. Wyatt stood in the office, the Hawthorne letter and the mine's map spread before him. Savannah cleaned her derringer, her face calm but her eyes sharp.
"Kane's done," she said. "But the Hawthornes aren't. That letter proves Cornelius is playing dirty, but we need more to stop the bill."
Wyatt nodded, his mind already on the next move. "Send another telegram to your contacts. Tell them to dig into Vanderbilt's son—every debt, every vice. If we can't outbid Cornelius, we'll outsmart him."
Jed leaned against the door, his Winchester propped nearby. "What about Red Hawk? Truce holds, but he's watchin'. And Kane mentioned somethin' about a Hawthorne man in Fort Benton, stirrin' up trouble."
Wyatt's grin returned, sharp as a blade. "Then we'll stir some trouble of our own. Get me a rider to Fort Benton. I want eyes on that Hawthorne man. And Jed—start hiring. We're building a rail line, and we need men who don't scare easy."
Savannah looked at him, her gray eyes searching. "You're not just fighting for the railroads, are you? This is personal."
Wyatt met her gaze, his voice low. "The Hawthornes want my family's empire. I'm gonna take theirs instead."
The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling like dust. The west was a battlefield, and Wyatt Archer was no longer the prodigal son. He was a hunter, a builder, a man with a plan. Kane was down, Red Hawk was talking, but the Hawthornes were still out there, pulling strings from Nova Washington. Wyatt would cut those strings, one by one, until the west was his.
End of Chapter Seven