"Heir Unrivaled"
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Covenant's Claw
The California spring sun burned bright over San Francisco's bustling docks, where the Archer Western Line's terminus stood as a testament to Pacific dominance. Wyatt Archer stood on a pier, his Stetson shading eyes that scanned the horizon where trade ships sailed, laden with Montana gold bound for Asia, Europe, and South America. The air was thick with salt, tar, and the clatter of cranes loading boxcars. The Hawthornes, Victor Drayton, the Iron Circle, the Sea Kings Alliance, the Dragon Tide Consortium, and the Southern Star Union were broken, their schemes buried by Wyatt's cunning. But a new threat loomed from across the Atlantic—the Golden Covenant, a syndicate of global financiers led by Samuel Cavendish, a London banker plotting to crash Wyatt's empire through market manipulation and hired mercenaries.
Wyatt's Colt revolver rested at his hip, its pearl handle a symbol of the Archer legacy, but his 2025 mind was his sharpest weapon—forged in battles against Silas Kane, Elias Ward, Malcolm, Gideon, Abigail Voss, Royce, Captain Thorne, Chen Wei, Mateo Cruz, and Owen Slade. The gold mines fueled his empire, the rails stretched from Montana to San Francisco, and Red Hawk's Blackfoot warriors guarded the northern lines, their alliance a pillar of strength. Savannah Blake's telegrams kept the eastern papers ablaze with the downfall of Wyatt's enemies, and Jedediah Cole's men patrolled the rails with unyielding grit. But Cavendish was a financial titan, his wealth tied to London's banks, and his plan was to flood California's markets with cheap credit while arming mercenaries to disrupt Wyatt's ports.
Jedediah Cole strode up the pier, his Winchester slung low, his bearded face weathered by sun and salt. "Trade's stronger than ever, boss," he said, his voice gruff. "Ships are movin' gold faster than we can mine it. But scouts report trouble in the bay. Cavendish's got armed brigs hittin' our vessels—two sunk this week. His man on land, a fella named Roland Blake, is rallyin' sixty mercenaries in the port district, aimin' to seize the trade offices."
Wyatt's grin was sharp, the prodigal son's charm masking a mind already spinning. "Cavendish is playin' chess with money, Jed. He wants to crash our markets and choke our trade. We'll break his brigs and clip Blake's talons."
Savannah Blake emerged from a dockside office, her auburn hair glinting under a wide-brimmed hat, her gray eyes sharp as she clutched a satchel of telegrams and trade reports. "My contacts in Nova Washington have dirt on Cavendish," she said, her drawl steady but urgent. "He's a London banker with ties to Paris and New York, manipulating markets to bankrupt our investors. Blake's his enforcer—ex-British army, deadly with a rifle and a saber. If they take the trade offices, our ships are grounded, and the banks foreclose."
Wyatt's jaw tightened, his 2025 instincts kicking in. Cavendish was a master of financial warfare, using credit and piracy to strangle Wyatt's empire. "Then we hit him on land and sea," he said. "Savannah, wire your contacts—leak Cavendish's market schemes to the San Francisco Chronicle and the London Times. Jed, ready a posse—forty-five men, best we've got. We'll take the trade offices and sink Cavendish's brigs."
Jed nodded, his boots thumping as he headed to rally the men. Savannah lingered, her eyes searching Wyatt's. "Cavendish's got the world's banks behind him, Wyatt. He's not like Holt—his money's a weapon. If we lose the trade offices, the Pacific's his, and our empire's done."
Wyatt's grin softened, but his voice was iron. "The Pacific's ours, Savannah. We've got Red Hawk, the rails, and the west in our blood. Cavendish wants a fight? He'll choke on it."
A low horn sounded from the north—Red Hawk's signal, carried by a rider from Montana. The chief had sent fifteen warriors, led by Swift Elk, to join Wyatt, their buffalo cloaks swaying as they rode into the city, their rifles gleaming. Swift Elk approached, his eyes steady. "The chief guards the rails, Archer," he said, his voice deep. "He sent us to aid you. Your rider spoke of sea bandits threatening your iron snake. What is your plan?"
Wyatt clasped his forearm, the alliance a lifeline across the west. "Cavendish's brigs are hittin' our ships, Swift Elk. His man Blake's in the port district, armin' mercenaries to take our trade offices. We'll hit his base, grab his papers, and sink his brigs. Your warriors with us?"
Swift Elk's nod was firm. "We stand with you. The sea will not take what is ours."
By dusk, Wyatt's posse gathered in San Francisco's foggy port district, a maze of warehouses and narrow streets near the trade offices. Forty-five rail yard guards, led by Jed, stood ready with Winchesters, their faces hardened by battles from Montana to the coast. Savannah rode beside Wyatt, her derringer holstered but her satchel packed with evidence to expose Cavendish's corruption. Swift Elk's warriors blended into the shadows, their rifles and tomahawks ready for a fight.
Scouts reported Blake's crew—sixty mercenaries fortified in a trade office converted into a stronghold, with dynamite crates and a Gatling gun guarding the entrance. Three armed brigs patrolled the bay, their cannons trained on Wyatt's trade ships. Blake was a tall man in a black coat, his face scarred, barking orders as his men secured the office. Wyatt's mind mapped the terrain—tight alleys to the east, open docks to the west, a perfect setup for a multi-pronged assault.
"We hit the trade office and the brigs at once," Wyatt said, crouching behind a stack of barrels. "Swift Elk, your warriors take the east alleys—clear the sentries. Jed, you and thirty-five men hit the docks, draw their fire. Savannah, you're with me—we'll slip into the trade office and grab Blake's papers."
Jed grunted, adjusting his Winchester. "You're bait again, Archer. Don't get yourself skewered."
Savannah's lips twitched, but her eyes were steady. "Those papers are our only shot to flip the trade board. We need to move fast."
The attack was swift and silent. Swift Elk's warriors moved through the east alleys, their tomahawks silencing sentries with lethal precision. Jed's men charged the docks, their Winchesters cracking as they drew Blake's mercenaries from the trade office. Wyatt and Savannah slipped through a side alley, their boots silent on the cobblestones, entering the trade office through a back door.
The interior was a maze of crates and ledgers, lit by flickering lanterns. Blake stood by a desk, studying a chart, a leather satchel at his side. Wyatt signaled Jed, who fired a warning shot, kicking up dust near the entrance. Blake's men scrambled, grabbing rifles, but Swift Elk's warriors struck from the east, their war cries splitting the night. Jed's posse pushed from the docks, their Winchesters a thunderclap, pinning the mercenaries.
Wyatt and Savannah darted toward the dynamite, dodging gunfire. Wyatt's Colt barked, dropping a mercenary who aimed at Savannah. Her derringer cracked, wounding another, her aim deadly despite the chaos. Blake stood by the desk, clutching the satchel, his saber gleaming. "Archer!" he roared. "You're a dead man!"
Wyatt dove behind a crate, his Colt answering, grazing Blake's arm. Savannah flanked him, her derringer forcing Blake to cover. Swift Elk's warriors cleared the east, their tomahawks silencing resistance. Jed's men pushed forward, overwhelming the mercenaries.
Wyatt sprinted for the dynamite, slashing the fuses before they could be lit. Blake lunged, his saber flashing, but Wyatt was faster, tackling him into the crates. They grappled, fists and steel clashing, until Wyatt pinned Blake's arm, his Colt at his throat. "Drop the satchel," Wyatt growled. "Cavendish's done."
Blake spat, his eyes burning, but he let the satchel fall. Wyatt bound his wrists, rifling through the leather satchel to find forged trade permits, bribe lists, and a letter from Cavendish ordering the market crash to starve the Archer rails. "Got you," Wyatt muttered, tucking the papers into his coat.
On the docks, Jed's men and local sailors loyal to Wyatt boarded the brigs, cutting their anchor lines and disabling their cannons. The fight was over—Blake's mercenaries surrendered, their dynamite secured. Swift Elk approached, his tomahawk bloodied but his face calm. "The sea bandits are broken," he said. "The spirits favor you, Archer."
Savannah wiped dust from her face, her smile triumphant. "You took down a British soldier, Wyatt. The Pacific's yours."
Jed joined them, his Winchester smoking. "Lost one man, but we got fifty prisoners. What's next, boss?"
Back at Great Falls, the summer sun bathed the rail yard, where workers cheered as a new trade train rolled west, bound for San Francisco's open ports. Wyatt stood in the depot office, Blake's papers spread beside the ledgers of past victories. Savannah wired the evidence to the San Francisco Chronicle and the London Times, her contacts promising a scandal that would bankrupt Cavendish and expose the Golden Covenant.
Red Hawk rode in, his presence commanding. "Your rider told of your victory, Archer. The sea is open, and the rails grow stronger. Our alliance holds."
Wyatt clasped his forearm, his voice earnest. "Your warriors guarded the heartland, Chief. Half the rail jobs are yours, and the mines will fund your future. The west is ours—together."
Savannah looked up from her telegrams, her gray eyes warm. "Cavendish's fleeing to London, his covenant collapsing. The rails are funded, Wyatt. The Pacific's yours."
Jed poured coffee, his face proud. "You're the Iron Eagle, Archer. The west's yours, and the sea's next."
Wyatt's grin was soft, his eyes on the map where the Archer Western Line stretched to the Pacific. "Couldn't have done it without you three. The west was a war, but we're building a legacy."
A cheer rose outside—workers, guards, and Blackfoot warriors chanting Wyatt's name. He stepped onto the platform, the Missouri River gleaming below, a witness to his triumph. The prodigal son was gone, replaced by a legend who'd tamed the frontier. The Golden Covenant was crumbling, and the rails would carry Wyatt's dream across the world.
As the sun set, Wyatt stood with Savannah, Jed, and Swift Elk, watching the trade train vanish west. "What's next?" Savannah asked, her voice warm with possibility.
Wyatt's eyes sparkled, his grin pure fire. "The world's ours."
But across the Atlantic, whispers of a new rival stirred—a global empire eyeing the west's wealth. Wyatt would be ready.
End of Chapter Twenty-Four