"Heir Unrivaled"
Chapter Eleven: The Tracks of Fury
The Montana dawn broke like a gunshot, painting the plains in streaks of crimson and gold. Wyatt Archer spurred his horse forward, the wind whipping his Stetson as he led a posse of twelve men toward the gold mines. The rail line stretched before them, a ribbon of iron and wood snaking through the rugged hills, vulnerable to the Hawthorne saboteurs' dynamite. Wyatt's Colt revolver bounced at his hip, his mind a whirlwind of 2025 tactics—flank, feint, overwhelm. Cornelius Hawthorne's latest play was desperate, twenty men armed to blow the tracks and halt the Archer advance to the mines. But desperation made men sloppy, and Wyatt intended to exploit it.
Jedediah Cole rode beside him, his Winchester across his saddle, his bearded face set in a scowl. "Twenty against twelve," he grumbled, his voice barely audible over the thundering hooves. "And that's if Red Hawk's warriors show. You sure about this, Archer?"
Wyatt's grin was fierce, the prodigal son's fire burning bright. "Sure as the sun rises, Jed. The mines are our lifeline—the gold pays for everything: men, supplies, even buying off Vanderbilt's debts. If the Hawthornes blow that line, we're done. But we've got the jump on 'em. Scouts say they're camped at the switchback, five miles ahead."
Savannah Blake galloped on his other side, her auburn hair streaming under her hat, her derringer holstered but ready. She'd insisted on coming, her gray eyes flashing with determination. "My telegram last night warned Red Hawk," she said, her drawl cutting through the wind. "If he honors the truce, his men will hit from the north. But if those renegades Ward armed show up, we'll be fighting on two fronts."
Wyatt nodded, his mind mapping the terrain. The switchback was a narrow pass where the rail curved around a rocky bluff, perfect for an ambush—or a counter-ambush. His posse included rail yard guards, hardened by weeks of raids, and a few Blackfoot scouts who'd pledged to Red Hawk's cause. The ledger from Ward's emporium had sealed the alliance, but trust was fragile, and Wyatt knew one misstep could shatter it.
As the switchback came into view, smoke rose from a campfire hidden in the rocks. Wyatt raised a hand, signaling the posse to halt. He dismounted, crouching behind a boulder, his spyglass pressed to his eye. Twenty men, alright—Hawthorne toughs in dusters and slouch hats, crates of dynamite stacked near the tracks. They were laying fuses, laughing like fools who thought the west was theirs for the taking.
"Sloppy," Wyatt muttered. "No scouts out. They're relying on surprise."
Jed peered over the boulder, his Winchester ready. "We hit 'em hard from the south, drive 'em into the bluff. But if Red Hawk don't show, we're pinned."
"He'll show," Wyatt said, his voice steady. "Savannah, take three men and circle east. Lay down cover fire from the ridge. Jed, you and the rest follow me—we'll charge the camp, grab the dynamite."
Savannah nodded, her face resolute. "Don't get yourself killed, Wyatt. I haven't collected on that alliance yet."
Wyatt winked, his grin flashing. "Wouldn't dream of it."
The posse split, shadows moving through the dawn mist. Wyatt led his group closer, hearts pounding, boots silent on the gravel. The Hawthorne men were focused on the fuses, oblivious. Wyatt signaled, and Jed's rifle cracked—the first shot dropping a saboteur mid-laugh.
Chaos erupted. The Hawthorne crew scrambled for cover, rifles spitting lead as Wyatt's men charged. Wyatt's Colt barked, hitting a man who aimed too slow. "For the rails!" he shouted, diving behind a crate as bullets whizzed past.
Jed fired methodically, his Winchester a thunderclap. "They're fallin' back to the bluff!" he yelled, reloading. Two saboteurs lit a fuse, the hiss cutting through the gunfire. Wyatt sprinted forward, knife in hand, slashing the line before it could ignite the dynamite. A burly man tackled him, fists flying, but Wyatt rolled, his Colt coming up to end the fight with a shot.
From the east, Savannah's group opened fire, her derringer precise, dropping men who tried to flank. The Hawthorne crew was fracturing, half down, the rest pinned against the bluff. But victory felt too easy—where were the reinforcements?
A war cry echoed from the north—Red Hawk and fifteen warriors bursting from the hills, their horses a storm of dust and fury. The chief's tomahawk flashed as he rode down a fleeing saboteur, his men encircling the bluff like wolves closing on prey. The remaining Hawthorne men threw down their rifles, hands raised in surrender.
Wyatt stood, dusting off his coat, his breath ragged but his grin triumphant. Red Hawk reined in beside him, his eyes appraising. "Your words hold true again, Archer," the chief said. "These men carry Hawthorne brands—more snakes in the grass."
Wyatt clasped his forearm, the alliance sealed in blood. "Thanks to you, Chief. Without your warriors, we'd be dust. Let's tie these fools up and see what they know."
Savannah joined them, her derringer smoking, a smudge of dirt on her cheek but her eyes gleaming. "One of them's talking already," she said, nodding to a captured man. "Says Cornelius sent them direct—orders to blow the line and frame the Blackfoot. He's desperate; the papers' leak has senators pulling back."
Wyatt's mind raced. The exposure was working, but Cornelius was lashing out. "Get their confessions," he said. "We'll send 'em east with the ledger copies. Vanderbilt'll think twice about backing a man who arms killers."
Red Hawk dismounted, his warriors securing the prisoners. "My people will guard this pass," he said. "But the renegades—Ward's dogs—they hide in the badlands. We must hunt them before they strike again."
"Agreed," Wyatt said. "Jed, take half the posse back to Great Falls. Fortify the depot. Savannah, you and I ride with Red Hawk. We'll end this today."
Jed hesitated, his face concerned. "You sure? The badlands are Blackfoot territory—rough country."
"That's why we've got the best guides," Wyatt said, clapping Red Hawk's shoulder. "Move out."
The badlands were a labyrinth of red rock canyons and twisted spires, the sun beating down like a hammer. Wyatt's group—him, Savannah, Red Hawk, and eight warriors—moved silently, following tracks left by the renegades. The air shimmered with heat, the only sound the crunch of boots on sandstone.
Red Hawk led, his eyes reading the land like a book. "They camp in the shadow canyon," he whispered. "Ten men, maybe more. Armed with white man's fire sticks."
Wyatt nodded, his Colt drawn. "We take 'em alive if we can—confessions tie back to Cornelius."
Savannah rode close, her derringer ready. "If they're Ward's men, they'll fight dirty. Watch for traps."
The canyon narrowed, shadows lengthening as they approached the camp. Smoke rose from a hidden fire, voices echoing—renegades laughing, unaware. Wyatt signaled a halt, scouting ahead with Red Hawk. The camp was small, tents clustered around a spring, rifles stacked, crates of dynamite nearby. Ten men, Blackfoot outcasts mixed with white gunslingers, all bearing the stink of Hawthorne gold.
"Flank 'em," Wyatt whispered. "Warriors from the west, us from the east. No killing unless necessary."
Red Hawk nodded, his tomahawk ready. The attack was swift—warriors bursting from the rocks, disarming men with brutal efficiency. Wyatt charged, his Colt barking warnings into the air. A renegade raised a rifle, but Savannah's derringer dropped him wounded. Wyatt tackled the leader, a scarred Blackfoot with a Hawthorne medallion around his neck.
"Talk," Wyatt growled, pinning him. "Who sent you?"
The leader spat, but fear flickered in his eyes. "Hawthorne man—Ward. Paid us to raid, blame the tribe. Said the iron snake would die."
Red Hawk loomed over him, his voice thunder. "You shame our people. The spirits will judge you."
The renegades were bound, their dynamite secured. Wyatt rifled through their gear, finding letters from Cornelius—orders to escalate, frame Red Hawk, force a war. "This ends it," he said, tucking the papers away. "With these, the bill's dead."
Savannah smiled, wiping sweat from her brow. "You're rewriting the west, Wyatt. But Cornelius won't stop. He'll come for you personally."
"Let him," Wyatt said, his grin fierce. "I've got allies now."
Back at Great Falls, the sun set in a blaze of glory, the rail yard buzzing with victory. Wyatt stood in the office, the new papers spread beside the ledger. Jed reported the prisoners secured, Red Hawk's warriors patrolling the lines. Savannah wired the confessions east, her contacts promising a scandal that would bury the Hawthornes.
But as night fell, a rider arrived, breathless. "Message from Nova Washington—Cornelius is coming west. With an army and a judge's warrant. He aims to seize the rails by force."
Wyatt's grin turned cold. "Then we'll give him a welcome he won't forget."
The Missouri River whispered outside, a witness to the storm brewing. Wyatt Archer was ready—the prodigal son no more, but a legend in the making. The Hawthornes' end was near, and the west would be his.
End of Chapter Eleven