"Heir Unrivaled"
Chapter Twelve: The Reckoning
The Montana night was a velvet shroud, pierced by the glow of lanterns along Great Falls' rail yard. Wyatt Archer stood atop the depot's watchtower, his Stetson casting a shadow over eyes that burned with purpose. The Missouri River murmured below, a silver thread winding through a land poised for war. Word had come at dusk: Cornelius Hawthorne himself was riding west, leading an army of fifty men—mercenaries, hired guns, and a judge with a warrant to seize the Archer railroads. The ledger from Elias Ward and the renegades' confessions had rocked Nova Washington, but Cornelius was no longer playing from the shadows. This was his final gambit, and Wyatt was ready to call his bluff.
His Colt revolver gleamed at his hip, but Wyatt's true arsenal was his 2025 mind—sharp with tactics from boardrooms and battlefields, honed by a week of outsmarting snakes like Silas Kane and Elias Ward. Red Hawk's warriors patrolled the northern plains, their alliance sealed by shared enemies. Savannah Blake's telegrams had turned the eastern papers into a firestorm, tarnishing the Hawthornes' name. Jedediah Cole's men fortified the depot, their Winchesters loaded, their resolve ironclad. But fifty men with a judge's writ was a storm Wyatt couldn't shoot his way out of—not without a plan.
Jed climbed the watchtower, his beard flecked with frost, his Winchester slung across his back. "Scouts say Hawthorne's camp is three miles east, near the old trading post," he said, his voice gruff. "Fifty men, maybe more, with wagons of dynamite and a fancy coach for the judge. They'll hit at dawn."
Wyatt's grin was sharp, the prodigal son's charm a mask for the steel beneath. "Cornelius wants a show, Jed. He's not just here for the rails—he's here to bury me. Let's give him a stage he won't forget."
Savannah Blake appeared at the ladder's top, her auburn hair tucked under a bonnet, her gray eyes glinting with urgency. She clutched a satchel stuffed with telegrams and the ledger, its pages a noose around the Hawthornes' neck. "My contacts in Nova Washington wired back," she said, her drawl steady but tense. "The Gazette's story is spreading—senators are pulling support from the railroad bill. Vanderbilt's waffling, but Cornelius has one last card: a judge named Hargrove, bought and paid for. That warrant gives him legal cover to seize the rails."
Wyatt's jaw tightened, but his grin held. "Then we take the warrant out of play. Hargrove's a puppet—cut his strings, and Cornelius is just another bandit. Set up a parley at dawn, Jed. Open ground, half a mile east. We'll talk first, fight if we have to."
Jed's eyes narrowed. "You're gonna talk to a man with fifty guns? That's a tall order, even for you."
"Talking's what I do best," Wyatt said, winking. "Savannah, get Red Hawk's men in position—hidden in the hills north of the parley site. If Cornelius tries anything, they'll be our ace."
Savannah nodded, her face resolute. "You're betting everything on this, Wyatt. If Hargrove calls your bluff, we're fighting a war we might not win."
"Then we don't bluff," Wyatt said, his voice hard. "We play the truth, and we play it loud."
Dawn broke over the plains, a blaze of gold and crimson that lit the parley ground—a flat stretch of grass flanked by low hills and the river's bend. Wyatt stood at the center, his coat dusted with dew, his Colt a silent promise at his hip. Jed and ten guards flanked him, their rifles ready but lowered. Savannah stood to his right, her satchel open, the ledger and confessions ready to wield like weapons. Red Hawk's warriors were hidden in the hills, their presence a shadow Cornelius wouldn't see coming.
The Hawthorne force rolled in like a storm—fifty men on horseback, mercenaries in dusters and slouch hats, their rifles gleaming. Two wagons carried crates of dynamite, a blunt threat. At the center was a black coach, its gold trim catching the sun. Cornelius Hawthorne stepped out, tall and broad, his tailored suit pristine, his gray eyes cold as a winter dawn. Beside him was Judge Hargrove, a wiry man in a black robe, clutching a leather folder—likely the warrant.
"Wyatt Archer," Cornelius called, his voice smooth but venomous. "You've caused me no end of trouble. Hand over Silas Kane, surrender the rails, and this warrant goes away. Defy me, and I'll burn your empire to the ground."
Wyatt's grin was reckless, his 2025 mind reading every angle. "Morning, Cornelius. Nice coach—must've cost a fortune. Shame you're spending all that Hawthorne gold on a losing hand."
Cornelius's smile was a blade. "Bold words for a drunkard. This warrant is legal, signed by Judge Hargrove. Your rails belong to the government now, and I'll buy them for pennies."
Savannah stepped forward, her voice cutting through the morning chill. "Before you wave that paper, read this." She tossed the ledger at Cornelius's feet, its pages open to the damning entries. "Your man Ward armed Blackfoot renegades to frame Red Hawk and sabotage the Archers. The confessions from your men at the switchback back it up. The papers back east are calling you a traitor, Cornelius. How long before the senators drop you?"
Hargrove's face paled, his eyes darting to the ledger. Cornelius's smile didn't waver, but his fingers twitched, betraying a crack in his armor. "Forgeries," he said. "You've got no proof."
"Proof's coming," Wyatt said, his voice steady. He raised a hand, and Red Hawk emerged from the hills, ten warriors at his back, their rifles trained on the Hawthorne men. The chief's buffalo cloak billowed, his tomahawk a silent threat. "You armed renegades to start a war, Cornelius," Wyatt continued. "Red Hawk's people paid the price. Tell me, Judge Hargrove—how's it feel to back a man who'd sell out the west for a profit?"
Hargrove stammered, clutching his folder. "This is… irregular. I was assured the warrant was lawful—"
"Lawful?" Wyatt laughed, stepping closer. "Your warrant's bought with Hawthorne bribes. The Gazette's got the story, and Vanderbilt's ready to jump ship. Walk away, Judge, or your name's in the mud with Cornelius."
Cornelius's eyes blazed, his hand drifting to a concealed pistol. "You're out of your depth, boy. My men outnumber yours five to one."
"Then let's even the odds," Wyatt said, whistling sharply. Red Hawk's warriors fanned out, joined by twenty more from the hills, their war cries echoing. Jed's guards raised their rifles, and the rail yard's watchtower bell rang, signaling more men ready to fight.
Cornelius froze, his men shifting uneasily. Hargrove dropped the warrant, his hands trembling. "This is a mistake," he muttered, backing toward the coach. "I'll… reconsider the writ."
Wyatt's grin was wolfish. "Smart move, Judge. Cornelius, you've got one chance. Call off your dogs, leave Montana, and I'll let you crawl back to Nova Washington. Push me, and you'll be lucky to see sunrise."
Cornelius's face twisted, but he saw the truth—Red Hawk's warriors, Jed's men, Wyatt's fire. "This isn't over," he snarled, mounting his coach. "You'll regret this, Archer."
As the Hawthorne force retreated, dust swirling in their wake, Red Hawk clasped Wyatt's forearm. "You fight like a warrior, Archer. Our alliance holds."
Savannah exhaled, her satchel clutched tight. "You just stared down Cornelius Hawthorne and won. That's a story they'll tell from here to the Potomac."
Wyatt's grin softened, but his eyes burned. "Story's not done yet. We've got the mines to secure and a bill to kill."
In the depot office, the midday sun streamed through the windows, illuminating the map where Wyatt marked the rail's path to the gold mines. Jed poured coffee, his face weary but proud. "Never seen a man back down Cornelius like that," he said. "But he'll come back, meaner than a rattler."
"Let him," Wyatt said, studying the map. "We've got Red Hawk, the rails, and the truth. Savannah, what's the word from Nova Washington?"
She unfolded a new telegram, her eyes gleaming. "Vanderbilt's out—refused Cornelius's latest offer. The bill's dead in committee. The papers are tearing the Hawthornes apart—calls for an investigation into their banks."
Wyatt's grin widened. His 2025 mind saw the endgame: starve the Hawthornes' money, break their power. "Send word to the mines," he said. "Double the crews, get those rails finished. And tell Red Hawk we're hiring his men—full pay, same as ours."
Savannah nodded, but her gaze lingered. "You're not just saving the railroads, Wyatt. You're building something bigger—an empire that'll outlast the Hawthornes."
He met her eyes, his voice low. "Maybe. But first, we make sure Cornelius stays buried."
A guard burst in, breathless. "Rider from Fort Benton—says a new Hawthorne agent's in town. Not Cornelius, but his brother, Malcolm. He's stirring up the renegades again, promising gold to burn the rails."
Wyatt's grin turned cold. "Then we'll burn him first. Jed, ready the posse. Savannah, get Red Hawk. We ride tonight."
The Missouri River gleamed outside, a witness to the war Wyatt was winning. The prodigal son was gone, replaced by a legend forged in fire and iron. Cornelius Hawthorne had come west to break him, but Wyatt Archer would break the Hawthornes instead. The rails would run, the mines would sing, and the west would be his.
End of Chapter Twelve