"Heir Unrivaled"
Chapter Thirteen: The Last Snake
The Montana night was a canvas of stars, pierced by the glow of campfires along the Missouri River's banks. Wyatt Archer crouched in a shallow gully outside Fort Benton, his Stetson low, his Colt revolver a cold comfort in his hand. The air was sharp with pine and gunpowder, and the distant hum of a saloon piano carried on the wind. Malcolm Hawthorne, Cornelius's younger brother, was in town, stirring up Blackfoot renegades with promises of gold to burn the Archer railroads. The ledger and confessions had crippled Cornelius's plans back east, but Malcolm was a new threat—a snake with sharper fangs, and Wyatt meant to cut them out.
His posse was small but lethal: Jedediah Cole, his Winchester a steady extension of his grizzled frame; Savannah Blake, her auburn hair hidden under a dark hat, her derringer gleaming; and Red Hawk, leading six of his fiercest warriors, their eyes like embers in the dark. The alliance with the Blackfoot chief was Wyatt's ace, forged in blood and trust, but Malcolm's arrival meant the Hawthornes were desperate, and desperate men played dirty.
Wyatt's 2025 mind churned, mapping the terrain like a chessboard. Fort Benton was a powder keg—traders, trappers, and mercenaries mingled in its saloons, and Malcolm was likely holed up in one, cutting deals with renegades. The rider's report had placed him at the Silver Dollar, a dive known for loose tongues and looser morals. Wyatt's plan was simple: infiltrate, confront, and shut Malcolm down before he could light the fuse on another war.
"Jed," Wyatt whispered, peering over the gully's edge. "You and three men take the back alley. Block the exits. Red Hawk, your warriors circle the north side—cut off any runners. Savannah, you're with me. We go in soft, talk first."
Jed's beard twitched, his voice low. "Malcolm ain't like Cornelius—word is, he's a fighter, not a talker. You sure you can charm him?"
Wyatt's grin was wolfish, the prodigal son's mask razor-sharp. "If I can't, my Colt will."
Savannah adjusted her hat, her gray eyes steady. "My contacts say Malcolm's got ten men, maybe more, plus renegades. They're armed heavy—rifles, dynamite, even a Gatling gun. If this goes wrong, we're outgunned."
"Then we don't let it go wrong," Wyatt said, his voice firm. "Let's move."
The Silver Dollar was a ramshackle saloon, its windows glowing with lamplight, its walls vibrating with drunken laughter and a tinny piano. Wyatt and Savannah slipped through the batwing doors, blending into the crowd of fur traders and riverboat men. Jed's men took positions outside, while Red Hawk's warriors vanished into the shadows. Wyatt scanned the room, his eyes landing on a man at a corner table—tall, lean, with Cornelius's gray eyes but a younger, harder edge. Malcolm Hawthorne, his suit rumpled but his pistol prominent, sat with two renegades and three white gunmen, a map spread before them.
Wyatt approached, his grin loose, his hands visible but his Colt a heartbeat away. "Malcolm Hawthorne," he called, loud enough to cut through the din. "Heard you're buying drinks for renegades. Mind if I join?"
The saloon fell quiet, eyes turning to the confrontation. Malcolm's gaze snapped up, his hand pausing over his pistol. "Wyatt Archer," he said, his voice a low growl. "The drunk who's been a thorn in my brother's side. You've got guts coming here."
"Guts and proof," Wyatt said, tossing the ledger onto the table. "Your brother armed renegades to frame Red Hawk and burn my rails. The papers back east are tearing you apart. Care to explain why you're picking up his dirty work?"
Malcolm's eyes flicked to the ledger, his jaw tightening. "You're a fool if you think paper stops us. The Hawthornes own the future—rails, mines, everything. Step aside, or I'll bury you."
Savannah stepped forward, her derringer hidden but her voice sharp. "You're out of moves, Malcolm. The railroad bill's dead, Vanderbilt's running, and we've got confessions tying you to the renegades. Keep pushing, and you'll swing for treason."
Malcolm laughed, a cold, bitter sound. "Treason? This is the west, lady. Money talks louder than law." He snapped his fingers, and his men stood, hands on weapons. The renegades drew knives, their eyes gleaming with hate.
Wyatt's grin didn't falter, but his hand hovered near his Colt. "Last chance, Malcolm. Call off your dogs, leave Fort Benton, and I let you walk. Push me, and you'll meet Red Hawk's warriors."
Malcolm's smile was a blade. "You think I'm scared of savages?" He drew his pistol, but a war cry split the night—Red Hawk and his warriors bursting through the back door, tomahawks flashing. Jed's men kicked in the side entrance, rifles raised. The saloon erupted, patrons diving for cover as Malcolm's men fired.
Wyatt dove behind a table, his Colt barking, dropping a gunman who aimed at Savannah. She fired her derringer, clipping a renegade's shoulder, while Red Hawk's warriors disarmed the others with brutal precision. Malcolm bolted for the stairs, clutching a satchel—likely more evidence. Wyatt sprinted after him, dodging a bullet that splintered the railing.
Upstairs, the hallway was narrow, lined with doors to private rooms. Malcolm ducked into one, and Wyatt followed, kicking the door open. Malcolm stood by a window, his pistol raised, a dynamite stick in his other hand, its fuse unlit. "One move, Archer," he snarled, "and we both go up."
Wyatt's grin was cold, his Colt steady. "You're not that stupid, Malcolm. Light that fuse, and your brother's empire burns with you. Drop it, and we talk."
Malcolm hesitated, his eyes darting to the satchel at his feet. Wyatt saw his chance, lunging forward and tackling him to the floor. The dynamite skidded away, and Wyatt pinned Malcolm's arm, pressing his Colt to his temple. "Game over," he said. "What's in the satchel?"
Malcolm spat, his voice venomous. "You'll never stop us. Cornelius has men in every state, banks in every city. You're a speck of dust."
Wyatt rifled through the satchel, finding letters—orders from Cornelius to escalate the war, bribe governors, even assassinate key senators. "Big mistake, Malcolm," he said, binding his wrists. "This is the noose that hangs your brother."
Downstairs, the fight was over. Red Hawk's warriors had the renegades bound, Jed's men guarding the gunmen. Savannah stood over the map, her eyes scanning its markings—Hawthorne plans to sabotage every major rail line west of the Mississippi. "This is bigger than Montana," she said, her voice low. "Cornelius wants the whole frontier."
Wyatt nodded, his mind racing. "Then we take it from him. Red Hawk, your warriors saved us again. Name your price."
The chief's eyes were steady. "No price. Our alliance holds. But these renegades shame my people. We will deal with them—our way."
Wyatt clasped his forearm. "Do it. And keep guarding the rails. We're finishing this line to the mines, no matter what."
Back at Great Falls, the dawn sun lit the rail yard, workers hammering ties with renewed vigor. Wyatt stood in the depot office, Malcolm's satchel and the ledger spread across the table. Jed poured coffee, his face weary but triumphant. "You took down Malcolm Hawthorne in his own den," he said. "Ain't many could pull that off."
Savannah unfolded a telegram, her eyes gleaming. "The papers are eating it up—'Hawthorne Brothers Plot Frontier War.' Cornelius is finished in Nova Washington. The banks are pulling his loans, and the senators are calling for his arrest."
Wyatt's grin was fierce, his 2025 mind seeing the endgame. "Send those letters east," he said. "Every governor, every paper. Let Cornelius drown in his own schemes. And double the rail crews—those mines are ours by month's end."
Red Hawk entered, his presence commanding. "My warriors found the renegades' camp—empty now. Their shame is cleansed. Your iron snake will run unmolested."
Wyatt nodded, his voice earnest. "You've got my word, Chief. The new route's surveyed, and your people get first claim on jobs. This isn't just my empire—it's ours."
Savannah looked at him, her gray eyes soft with respect. "You're not just a railroad man, Wyatt. You're rewriting the west."
He met her gaze, his grin softening. "Maybe. But I couldn't do it without you. Or Jed. Or Red Hawk."
A guard burst in, breathless. "Rider from the mines—says the first gold shipment's ready. But there's talk of a new Hawthorne man, out of Wyoming. Calls himself Gideon. Says he's coming for you, Wyatt."
Wyatt's grin turned cold. "Let him come. We've got rails to build and an empire to hold."
The Missouri River gleamed outside, a witness to Wyatt Archer's rise. The prodigal son was gone, replaced by a legend forged in fire, iron, and blood. The Hawthornes were crumbling, but one last snake slithered in the grass. Wyatt would hunt it down, and the west would sing his name.
End of Chapter Thirteen