"Heir Unrivaled"
Chapter Eight: Shadows in Fort Benton
The Montana dusk draped Great Falls in a veil of purple, the Missouri River glinting like a blade under the fading sun. Wyatt Archer stood in the rail yard's office, his Stetson pushed back, his green eyes tracing the map on the table. The red Xs marking Silas Kane's raids were fading ink now, but a new threat loomed—Fort Benton, twenty miles north, where a Hawthorne man was stirring trouble, per Jed's report. The crumpled letter from Cornelius Hawthorne, taken from Kane's camp, burned in Wyatt's pocket, its words a constant reminder: the Hawthornes weren't just fighting in the west; they were strangling the Archer empire from Nova Washington.
Wyatt's Colt revolver rested on the table, its pearl handle catching the lamplight. His 2025 mind churned—intelligence was power, and he needed it now. Kane was locked in a shed, his crew scattered, but the Hawthorne's proxy in Fort Benton was a ghost, pulling strings in a town that thrived on trade and treachery. Red Hawk's truce held, but the chief's warriors were watching, and Wyatt's promise to reroute the railroad was a clock ticking down. He needed answers, and he needed them fast.
Jedediah Cole burst through the door, his beard flecked with dust, his Winchester slung over his shoulder. "Rider's back from Fort Benton," he said, his voice gruff. "Says the Hawthorne man's a trader named Elias Ward. Runs a supply post by the levee, deals in furs and guns. Folks say he's got a silver tongue and a knack for trouble."
Wyatt's grin was sharp, the prodigal son's charm masking the steel beneath. "Sounds like my kind of man. What else?"
Jed dropped a scrap of paper on the table—a sketch of a man with a sharp nose and a bowler hat. "Rider saw him meetin' with Blackfoot traders last night. Not Red Hawk's men—outcasts, maybe. Looked like they were plannin' somethin'."
Wyatt's jaw tightened. The Hawthornes were playing dirty, arming Blackfoot renegades to destabilize the region while pinning the blame on Red Hawk. It was clever, and it meant Ward was more than a trader—he was a puppet master. "Get a posse ready," Wyatt said. "Four men, light and fast. We ride to Fort Benton tonight."
Savannah Blake stepped into the room, her auburn hair loose under her bonnet, her gray eyes sharp as a blade. She carried a telegram, its edges crumpled from her grip. "You're not riding anywhere until you hear this," she said, tossing the paper onto the table. "My contacts in Nova Washington came through. Vanderbilt's son owes twenty thousand in gambling debts. Cornelius Hawthorne's covering half, but he's short on cash himself. He's borrowing from eastern banks, and they're getting nervous."
Wyatt scanned the telegram, his 2025 brain clicking. Leverage. If he could outmaneuver Cornelius financially, he could flip Vanderbilt and kill the railroad bill. But that meant money, and Great Falls was bleeding dry. "We need the gold mines," he said, tapping the map. "If we secure the rail line to the diggings, we'll have the cash to outbid Cornelius."
Savannah raised an eyebrow. "And Ward? If he's arming Blackfoot renegades, he's not just a trader. He's a Hawthorne attack dog."
"Then we clip his leash," Wyatt said, his grin wolfish. "Jed, get that posse. Savannah, you're with me. We're going to Fort Benton to have a little chat with Mr. Ward."
She crossed her arms, her drawl sharp. "You're walking into a lion's den with four men and a prayer. What's the plan?"
"Find Ward, find his books," Wyatt said. "If he's dealing guns, he's got records. We get those, we tie him to the Hawthornes, and we shut him down."
Jed snorted. "And if he's got a dozen gunmen waitin'?"
"Then we'll need more than a prayer," Wyatt said, holstering his Colt. "Let's move."
Fort Benton was a frontier hub, a sprawl of saloons, trading posts, and steamboat docks along the Missouri's muddy banks. The town pulsed with life under the starlit sky—trappers haggling over furs, steamboat captains shouting at deckhands, Blackfoot traders swapping pelts for whiskey. Wyatt's posse rode in at midnight, their horses' hooves muffled by the dirt streets. The air was thick with the scent of river mud and cheap cigars, and every shadow felt like a threat.
Elias Ward's supply post was a two-story building by the levee, its sign reading Ward's Emporium in faded paint. Lanterns glowed through the windows, and two men lounged outside, their rifles leaning against the wall. Wyatt dismounted, tying his horse to a hitching post a block away. Jed and the guards spread out, blending into the crowd, while Savannah stayed close, her derringer hidden under her shawl.
"Looks quiet," she whispered, her eyes scanning the street. "Too quiet."
Wyatt nodded, his 2025 instincts screaming. Quiet meant a trap, or Ward was already gone. "We go in soft," he said. "You and I talk our way inside. Jed's men watch the exits."
They approached the emporium, Wyatt's grin loose and reckless, the prodigal son's mask firmly in place. The two guards straightened, hands drifting to their rifles. "State your business," one growled, his face pockmarked and mean.
"Wyatt Archer," he said, tipping his Stetson. "Here to see Elias Ward. Got a business proposition he'll want to hear."
The guards exchanged a glance, then the pockmarked one nodded. "Wait here." He slipped inside, leaving his partner to watch them. Wyatt kept his hands visible, his Colt a heartbeat away. Savannah's smile was all Southern charm, but her eyes were cold, calculating.
The door opened, and a man stepped out—tall, sharp-nosed, his bowler hat tilted at a jaunty angle. Elias Ward. His suit was tailored, his smile slick as oil. "Mr. Archer," he said, his voice smooth as a riverboat gambler's. "Didn't expect the Archer heir in my humble shop. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Wyatt matched his smile, his 2025 brain reading every twitch. Ward was too calm, too polished. "Heard you're the man to see for guns and furs," Wyatt said. "Thought I'd make a deal before the Blackfoot clean you out."
Ward's smile didn't falter, but his eyes hardened. "Blackfoot don't bother me. I've got… arrangements. Step inside, let's talk."
Wyatt followed, Savannah at his side, her satchel clutched tight. The emporium was a maze of crates—furs, blankets, and barrels marked Powder. A clerk shuffled papers at a counter, but the back room was where the real business happened, its door guarded by a burly man with a shotgun. Ward led them to a table, offering whiskey from a crystal decanter. Wyatt declined, his eyes scanning for ledgers or anything tying Ward to the Hawthornes.
"Word is, you're having trouble with Red Hawk," Ward said, sipping his drink. "Raids, burned depots. I could help. I know men who can… persuade the Blackfoot to back off."
Wyatt's grin widened. "Funny you mention Red Hawk. He and I have a truce. But I hear you're dealing with his outcasts, arming them to hit my rails. Care to explain?"
Ward's smile froze, his hand pausing mid-sip. "Dangerous talk, Archer. You got proof?"
Savannah opened her satchel, pulling a sketch of Ward meeting Blackfoot traders, courtesy of Jed's rider. "This look familiar?" she asked, her drawl cutting like a blade. "My contacts saw you at the levee last night, passing rifles to men who aren't Red Hawk's."
Ward's eyes darted to the guard at the back door, then back to Wyatt. "You're out of your depth, boy," he said, his voice low. "The Hawthornes own this game. Walk away, or you won't walk at all."
Wyatt leaned forward, his grin gone, his voice steel. "Here's my counteroffer, Ward. Hand over your ledgers, tell me who's bankrolling you, and I let you leave Fort Benton alive."
The guard raised his shotgun, but Savannah was faster, her derringer snapping up. "Drop it," she said, her voice calm but deadly. The guard hesitated, then complied, the shotgun clattering to the floor.
Ward lunged for a desk drawer, but Wyatt was on him, slamming his wrist to the table. A derringer skidded free, and Wyatt kicked it away. "Bad move," he said, binding Ward's hands with a rope from his belt. Jed's men burst in, rifles raised, securing the clerk and the guard.
Wyatt rifled through the desk, finding a ledger bound in black leather. Its pages were a gold mine—records of gun shipments, payments from a Nova Washington bank, and a coded note signed C.H.—Cornelius Hawthorne. "Jackpot," Wyatt muttered, tucking the ledger into his coat.
Savannah scanned the room, her eyes sharp. "We need to move. If Ward's men are in town, they'll come running."
Wyatt nodded, signaling Jed. "Burn the gun crates. Leave the rest. We're not thieves."
As they rode back to Great Falls, the emporium's flames lit the night sky, a beacon of defiance. Wyatt clutched the ledger, his mind racing. The Hawthornes were arming renegades, bribing senators, and bankrupting themselves to do it. If he could expose them, he could save the Archer railroads—and maybe the west.
Back at the depot, dawn was breaking, the rail yard alive with workers. Wyatt spread the ledger on the office table, Savannah and Jed at his side. "This ties Ward to Cornelius," he said. "But we need more. Savannah, get this to your contacts in Nova Washington. Tell them to leak it to the papers. If we can't stop the bill, we'll make the Hawthornes too toxic to touch."
Savannah nodded, her eyes gleaming with respect. "You're playing a dangerous game, Wyatt. But you're good at it."
Jed grunted, his Winchester propped nearby. "What about Red Hawk? If he hears about these renegades, he'll think you broke the truce."
"Then we tell him the truth," Wyatt said. "Send a rider to his camp. Invite him to the depot. I'll show him the ledger, prove the Hawthornes are the real enemy."
As Jed left to organize the rider, Savannah lingered, her gaze steady. "You're not just fighting for the railroads, are you? This is about proving something."
Wyatt's grin was sharp, but his eyes were honest. "I'm proving I'm not the man they think I am. And I'm not done yet."
The Missouri River gleamed outside, a silver thread through a land of blood and ambition. Wyatt Archer was no longer the prodigal son. He was a hunter, a builder, a man rewriting his name in fire. The Hawthornes thought they could break him, but they'd misjudged their man. Fort Benton was a warning, and the west would hear it loud and clear.
End of Chapter Eight