"Heir Unrivaled"
Chapter Nine: The Alliance Forged
The Montana morning sun climbed slow and steady over Great Falls, casting long shadows across the rail yard where men hammered spikes into ties and loaded crates onto waiting boxcars. Wyatt Archer paced the depot's wooden platform, his Stetson shading eyes that scanned the northern horizon like a hawk hunting prey. The air was crisp, laced with the scent of fresh lumber and river mud, but tension hung thick as smoke. Red Hawk's rider had returned last night with a single word: "Coming." The Blackfoot chief was on his way, and Wyatt's invitation—backed by the promise of truth about the Hawthornes' schemes—could either forge an unbreakable alliance or shatter the fragile truce.
Wyatt's Colt revolver rested at his hip, its pearl handle a reminder of his grandfather's legacy, but today his real weapon was the black leather ledger tucked into his coat. Elias Ward's records from Fort Benton were a treasure trove: shipments of rifles to Blackfoot renegades, payments traced to Cornelius Hawthorne's banks, and coded notes outlining sabotage plans. If Red Hawk saw the proof, he might turn from wary observer to active ally. But chiefs like Red Hawk didn't trust easily, and Wyatt's 2025 mind knew one wrong word could turn negotiation into war.
Jedediah Cole leaned against a post, his Winchester propped nearby, his bearded face etched with caution. "You sure this ain't a trap, Archer? Red Hawk brings twenty warriors, we got half that. If he don't like what you say, this yard turns into a graveyard."
Wyatt's grin was loose, the prodigal son's charm a shield for the calculations beneath. "If it was a trap, he'd have hit us already. He's coming to listen, Jed. And when he hears about the Hawthornes arming his enemies, he'll want blood—their blood, not ours."
Savannah Blake emerged from the depot office, her auburn hair pinned neatly under a bonnet, her gray eyes sharp as she clutched a fresh telegram. "Your leak to the Nova Washington papers paid off," she said, handing him the paper. "The Gazette ran a story this morning: 'Hawthorne Scandals Exposed—Arming Indians to Steal Railroads.' Cornelius is scrambling, but Vanderbilt's son is spooked. My contacts say he's open to a better deal on those debts."
Wyatt scanned the telegram, his mind racing. The exposure was a knife in the Hawthornes' side, but it wasn't fatal. Cornelius would fight back, maybe double down on bribes or send more agents west. "Good work," he said, tucking the paper away. "If we flip Vanderbilt, the bill dies. But we need Red Hawk's warriors guarding our rails to make it stick. Without them, the Hawthornes'll just send another Kane."
Savannah nodded, her drawl steady but laced with concern. "And if Red Hawk walks? Those renegades Ward armed are still out there. They could hit us tonight, blame it on the Blackfoot, and start a war we can't win."
"Then we make sure he doesn't walk," Wyatt said, his voice firm. "Set up the table like last time—whiskey, bread, and that crate of tools we promised. Make it look welcoming, not desperate."
Jed grunted and headed off to organize the men, his boots thumping on the planks. Wyatt watched the horizon, his thoughts drifting to his grandfather, the Iron Eagle, who'd carved an empire from the Mexican War's ashes. Ezekiel Archer would approve of this play—alliances over bullets, brains over brawn. But the old man was back east, leaving Wyatt to prove himself in the dirt.
Dust rose in the north, a plume signaling riders. Wyatt squared his shoulders, his grin fading into resolve. "Showtime."
Red Hawk arrived like a storm front, twenty warriors on horseback, their faces painted for council, not war. The chief dismounted, his buffalo cloak sweeping the ground, his tomahawk at his belt like a silent threat. His eyes locked on Wyatt, unyielding but curious. Four warriors flanked him, their rifles slung but ready. The rest stayed mounted, a wall of muscle and resolve against the rail yard's iron.
"Archer," Red Hawk said, his voice deep as the river. "You send for me like a friend, but your words last time were wind. Show me why I should not ride away."
Wyatt gestured to the table set in the yard's open space, laden with whiskey, fresh bread, and a crate of steel knives and blankets. "Sit with me, Chief. I've got proof the Hawthornes are the snakes biting at your heels. Not me."
Red Hawk studied him, then nodded, sitting with the grace of a man who owned the land. His warriors stood guard, eyes on Jed's men, who kept their distance but their rifles close. Savannah joined them at the table, her presence a quiet strength, while Jed hovered nearby, his hand near his Winchester.
Wyatt poured whiskey, sliding a glass to Red Hawk. "Your outcasts—the renegades raiding my depots—they're armed by a man named Elias Ward in Fort Benton. He's Hawthorne's dog, paying them to stir trouble and blame you. I raided his shop last night. Here's what I found."
He pulled the ledger from his coat, flipping it open to the damning pages: entries for "Blackfoot supplies" coded as rifles, payments from a Nova Washington account linked to Cornelius Hawthorne, and notes on "disrupting Archer rails to force Blackfoot conflict." Red Hawk's eyes narrowed as he scanned the script, his fingers tracing the lines. One of his warriors leaned in, murmuring in their tongue, but the chief silenced him with a glance.
"This is white man's paper," Red Hawk said, his voice low. "Words can lie. Why should I believe?"
"Because I burned Ward's shop," Wyatt said, leaning forward. "And I've got witnesses. The Hawthornes want war between us—makes it easier to steal my railroads and your land. But if we stand together, we stop them. Your warriors guard my tracks, I reroute the line around your grounds, and we both get rich from the gold mines. No more raids, no more blood."
Red Hawk's face was stone, but his eyes flickered with anger—not at Wyatt, but at the ledger. "My people have been tricked by white words before. The Hawthornes send guns to my enemies, make them look like my kin. This is their way—to divide and take."
Savannah spoke up, her voice calm but firm. "We've leaked this to the papers back east. The Hawthornes are exposed, but they're fighting back. If you ally with Wyatt, you send a message: the Blackfoot aren't pawns. And we'll pay you fair—supplies, shares in the rail profits."
The chief looked at her, respect in his gaze. "You speak like a warrior, woman. But alliances break like dry bones."
Wyatt met Red Hawk's eyes, his voice earnest. "Then let's make it solid. I'll sign a treaty, right here. Your people get veto on the new route, and first claim on jobs building it. If I break it, you take my scalp."
Red Hawk was silent, the yard tense as a bowstring. Then he nodded, slow and deliberate. "I will take your paper. And my warriors will watch your iron snake—for now. But if the Hawthornes come, we fight together."
Wyatt pulled a sheet of paper from Savannah's satchel, scrawling the terms in quick, bold strokes. He signed it, passing the quill to Red Hawk, who marked it with a thumbprint dipped in ochre. The warriors murmured approval, and Jed let out a low whistle from the sidelines.
The chief stood, his cloak billowing. "Send your surveyors. We will guide them. But remember, Archer—betray us, and no white man's law saves you."
As Red Hawk and his riders departed, dust swirling in their wake, Wyatt exhaled, the ledger heavy in his hands. "We got him," he said, turning to Savannah and Jed. "Now the real fight begins."
In the depot office, the afternoon sun slanted through the windows, illuminating the map where Wyatt marked the new rail route—skirting Blackfoot hunting grounds, curving toward the gold mines. Jed poured coffee, his face relaxed for the first time in days. "Never thought I'd see a Blackfoot chief sign a white man's paper. You got a way with words, Archer."
Savannah unfolded another telegram, her expression grim. "Cornelius isn't done. My contacts say he's furious about the leak—threatening lawsuits, bribing editors to retract. And Vanderbilt's son is waffling; Cornelius upped his offer on the debts."
Wyatt's grin faded, his mind spinning. The Hawthornes were wounded, but desperate animals fought hardest. "We need to hit them harder," he said. "Send the ledger copies east—get them to the senators voting on the bill. And hire more men; with Red Hawk's warriors, we can push the rail to the mines in weeks."
Jed nodded, but his eyes were troubled. "What about those renegades? Ward's guns are still out there. If they hit us now, Red Hawk might think we set it up."
"Then we hunt them," Wyatt said, tapping the map. "Send scouts north—find their camp. We'll cut off the Hawthornes' last play in the west."
Savannah leaned against the desk, her gray eyes meeting Wyatt's. "You're building something here, Wyatt. Not just rails—an empire. But the Hawthornes won't stop. Cornelius might send an army next."
"Let him," Wyatt said, his voice hard. "I've got the Blackfoot, the mines, and you two. We'll bury him."
The door burst open, a guard panting. "Riders from the east—Hawthorne men, armed heavy. They're demanding Kane's release, sayin' he's innocent."
Wyatt's grin returned, sharp as a blade. "Looks like Cornelius heard about our little raid. Jed, round up the men. Savannah, get that ledger ready. Time to show these eastern snakes what the west is made of."
The rail yard buzzed with activity as Wyatt stepped outside, the sun dipping low, casting the depot in gold. The Hawthornes were coming, but Wyatt Archer was ready. The prodigal son had become a legend, and legends didn't fall—they rose.
End of Chapter Nine